


An Excellent Mystery

by Soledad



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: A Victorian Investigation, ACD Canon Mary, Gen, Victorian Murder Mystery, Victorian!Sherlock
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-08
Updated: 2017-06-15
Packaged: 2018-10-16 12:53:25
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 62,223
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10571712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Soledad/pseuds/Soledad
Summary: An original Sherlock Holmes adventure, set in Victorian times, featuring the main characters of the BBC series. Beta read by my good friend, Linda Hoyland, thanks!





	1. Lost Luggage

**Author's Note:**

> The items of the lost luggage were borrowed from this website: http:// www. schoolsliaison.org.uk/ lostluggage/ victorians. htm. Remove the breaks and you can see the actual items for yourself.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The places mentioned in this chapter are really existing ones, like _New Street Station_ or _The Grand Hotel_.  
>  Inspector Bradstreet is actually Inspector Baynes of the ACD canon. I just switched the names because I liked the name Bradstreet better.  
> For visuals: Mr Roberts is “played” by Sir Derek Jacobi; his successor, Mr Stoner, by Kai Owen, his bride by Eve Myles, Mr Murdoch by Yannick Bisson and Harper, the valet, by Burn Gorman. The two porters are Thomas Craig and Johnny Harris, respectively.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 01 – LOST LUGGAGE**

For Station Superintendent Roberts there was no grander building in Birmingham than _New Street Railway Station_. Or, as it had been described when formally opened on 1 June 1854 – although it had already been in use for two years by then – the “Grand Central Station at Birmingham”.

Oh, there had been other grand buildings, surely. There was _The Grand Hotel_ on Colmore Row, _St. Philip’s Cathedral_ , the _Theatre Royal_... one could have gone on for hours. But Mr Roberts found that none of them could be compared with his beloved station.

A breath-taking piece of architecture it was, which, at the time of the opening, had the largest arched single-span iron and glass roof in the world, spanning a width of 212 feet and being 840 feet long. It had held this title for fourteen years, until _St Pancras Station_ opened, just last year. 

A true marvel that he, Lucius Roberts, had been allowed to take care of since the very first day.

For thirty-five long years he had been caretaker of this jewel and he’d loved every single day of it. But he wasn’t a young man anymore. It was time to retire from active duty.

Today he’d finish instructing his successor on the duties and responsibilities of a Station Superintendent. And as much as the thought of handing over the station hurt him, he knew his jewel would be in good hands with young Mr Stoner.

Such a memorable day deserved the proper attire, and so he took out his best to honour the event, even though his valet had to go away on an errand and thus couldn’t help him getting dressed. Fortunately, though elderly, he was no dotard yet. He _could_ get dressed on his own properly. It just cost him more time without help, that was all.

Trousers and boots went on easily enough. He could do them sitting down, after all. Well, mostly. Getting the long, fine linen shirt over his head and tucked in properly, without those beastly wrinkles, was a little more difficult. He had to sit down again, for he felt a brief wave of dizziness. But eventually, he got the suspenders on and the waistcoat and its many small buttons and the jacket fastened.

Even if he dropped the button hook in the process. Twice.

He admired his appearance in the minor with satisfaction. Whatever he might think about the capricious changes of fashion, he had to admit that lately, it had taken a turn to the better. The narrowed trousers, the sleeker cut of jackets looked more appealing. Especially the way jackets were cut up from the bottom now, so that the waistcoat beneath could be seen – and, more importantly, the chin of the fob watch threaded through its buttonhole.

He made a very dignified picture with it, he found.

Now it was just him and the cravat. He hadn’t tied it himself for a while and tried to remember the proper moves as he wound the deep burgundy silk around his throat carefully, ignoring the tremor in his hands... a merciless reminder that he was getting old; perhaps even feeble.

It took him several tries to get it right. But when it was done, when it was secured with the pin – a gift from his co-workers on his thirty-year-anniversary – he almost felt like himself again. _Almost_. Still, he wished his valet were here to make sure he looked as neat and proper as a man of his standing was expected to do.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Getting to the station was no great hardship, fortunately. The _London and North Western Railway_ had provided him with most comfortable rooms above _Queen’s Hotel_ when he had moved from London to Birmingham, for which he only had to pay a peppercorn rent. 

That had enabled him to save enough money to purchase a modest little cottage in Much Benham, a little town on the outskirts of London, where most of his belongings had been already transferred. By the time he got there, his servant would have arranged everything to his liking.

Young Harper was truly a treasure, he thought fondly. Albeit short, thin, weasel-faced and of sour disposition, he was also a loyal soul who had served his master faithfully for the last eighteen years. Ever since Mr Roberts had taken pity of the starving street urchin and taken him into his employ.

Yes, he had definitely been blessed with Harper. Just as he’d been fortunate with young Will Stoner who had started off as a minor clerk under his tutelage and was now ready to take over from him – a change towards which Mr Roberts had worked for a long time.

He had watched the young man carefully and tested his skills and devotion methodically time and again. He had reportedly mentioned Mr Stoner’s capability in his written reports to his superiors. He had even called in several favours to ensure that Will Stoner would, indeed, become his successor – for the position of the Station Superintendent was a much-coveted one.

Fortunately, Will Stoner had contacts of his own. Both his father and that of his soon-to-be-wife occupied important positions in the City Council and the _London and North Western Railway_ , respectively, and had therefore sufficient influence. Thus, he could count on more than just Mr Roberts’s support, which might or might not have been enough to secure for him the position.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
After some very careful manoeuvring down the stairs and around piled-up heaps of luggage, Mr Roberts reached the interior of the station and headed for the Lost Luggage Department, where he was supposed to meet Will Stoner.

As always, the aforementioned interior took his breath away. Its magnitude alone deserved attention. Its once record- breaking semi- circular roof was composed of iron and glass, without the slightest support except that afforded by the pillars on either side... a rare piece of construction by Messrs. Fox, Henderson & Co. And beneath that roof, the station was brimming with life.

Mr Roberts’s experienced eye easily saw through the turmoil and bustle created by the excitement of the arrival and departure of trains, the trampling of crowds of passengers, the transport of luggage, the ringing of bells and the noise of two or three hundred porters and workmen. For a simple onlooker it probably seemed like hopeless chaos. For Mr Roberts, it was the same extraordinary scene he witnessed daily at Birmingham Central.

Porters, and workmen and clerks and even regular passengers greeted him with respect as they hurried by. He’d been a constant feature of New Street Station for decades, and everyone knew him. 

Some of these people he’d known since they were small children, clutching the hands of their parents when seen their first steam train, and they saw him as a distant but friendly uncle. Others were new, but regular; and even those who didn’t know him from before they stopped for a moment to give room his dignified figure.

As he crossed the footbridge across the platforms, slowly making his way towards the Lost Luggage Department – the last part of the station he had to hand over before the final farewell – he spotted young Mr Stoner waiting for him outside the office doors, under one of the beautiful, wrought iron candelabra that were the pride of the main hall. 

The young man had also dressed to the event, wearing an old-fashioned frock coat with a contrasting waistcoat and trousers and even a top hat. Not that the latter would have been needed indoors, but it was part of the formal attire and thus a sign of respect. Most young people preferred the more fashionable sack coats with matching waistcoat and trousers, but Will Stoner would find that improper for such an occasion. The patterned Ascot tie was the only allowance he would make.

Half Mr Roberts’s age, he was a somewhat stockily built young man of middle height, with a round, friendly, eager face, guileless brown eyes and brown hair. Easy-going by nature yet respectful towards his betters, he was generally liked by everyone. He had worked hard and diligently to reach his current position, and as he looked at that face full of earnest expectation, Mr Roberts was once again reassured that his beloved station would be in good hands.

“Good morning, sir,” he said, tipping his hat respectfully. ”May I offer my help?”

“Thank you, my lad, but that shan’t be necessary,” replied Mr Roberts. ”My walking stick and I can manage it on our own just fine.”

No matter how much his gout had been bothering him lately, he would never show it by accepting the arm of the young man. That was simply _not_ done in his – former – position.

Will Stoner nodded in understanding. He had known – and respected – the pride of his mentor ever since he’d begun to work at _New Street Station_ nearly fourteen years ago.

“I hope you don’t mind that I’ve invited Gwyneth – Miss Cooper – along,” he then said apologetically. “She wanted to come badly, as soon as she learned that we’d be inspecting some lost luggage today. You know how interested women are in things that belong to other people... and we shan’t be handling anything confidential.”

Mr Roberts suppressed a sigh. Will’s fiancée was a nice enough girl if one was interested in that wide-eyed type, but she was also an unstoppable chatterbox. That woman could talk without having to take a single breath all day... perhaps even in her sleep. How Will could bear her was everyone’s guess, but he seemed completely besotted with her and couldn’t deny her any wish as long as fulfilling said wish was within his powers.

Of course, the fact that her father had an important position at the _London and North Western Railway_ and had been a great help with securing Will’s position as the new Station Superintendent _did_ play a role. That, and the fact that she brought a sizeable dowry into the marriage... well, the _upcoming_ marriage. 

The wedding was scheduled for June, and Mr Roberts had been invited, of course.

Therefore, he accepted the fact that their work would be considerably delayed by Miss Cooper’s chatter and curiosity, and he entered the Lost Luggage office accompanied by his successor, determined to bring the last part of his duties to a proper end.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Inside the office, two of the porters had already done a great deal of preparatory work, sorting the pieces of lost luggage by the date at which they had been found. Mr Roberts had introduced the labelling system to this particular department a decade or so ago, for it made it much easier for passengers to reclaim their lost things.

The label marked the date and the platform when and where each piece had been found, as well as the trains that had stopped at the respective platforms at that time. This system made things really easy for both parties. Nevertheless, there was still a great deal of luggage that remained unclaimed.

At the moment, about three dozen suitcases and travelling trunks stood in the office, in small, well-ordered groups, plus a considerable number of walking sticks, umbrellas, children’s toys, various pieces of clothing like hats, gloves, overcoats, jackets and their like; even handbags and handkerchiefs. The amount and variety of things people left behind was simply amazing.

And amidst of all those things stood Miss Gwyneth Elise Cooper, looking very out of place but clearly intent on looking into every trunk, every suitcase, every lost handbag, should she be allowed to do so.

She was a slender young woman – considerably younger than Will – with a round, freckled face and unexpectedly large, liquid brown eyes that contrasted nicely with her pale skin, which she’d clearly inherited from her Welsh father. Her hair was dark brown, too, and she wore it in a cluster of ringlets, pulled back at the sides and swept up to the top of her head. Her frizzled fringe hung over her forehead from under the curvy-brimmed bonnet that was tied under her chin with a ribbon.

She was wearing a yellow-patterned blue silk walking dress of the latest fashion, with the overskirt plated into a seam-line on one side at the front and draped diagonally across her body to a low set of hip tucks on the sides. The back of it was gathered in several low-hanging puffs, causing the overskirt to sweep up rather high, leaving the underskirt exposed. Her form-fitting bodice had a fairly low cut and tight sleeves that reached to the elbows and were seamed with ruffles.

Even though he welcomed the disappearance of the overdone bustles, Mr Roberts found this new fashion a little offensive, to be perfectly honest. But despite the fact that he hadn’t got a family of his own, he knew that there was no way to tell a young woman _not_ to wear something if they found it to their liking. 

Especially if their friends wore the same things. And if their fathers could afford to dress them fashionably.

Miss Cooper gave the old gentleman a curtsey and one of those gap-toothed smiles that made her so endearing, in spite of her more exasperating qualities.

“So kind of you to allow me to watch, Mr Roberts,” she said with ill-concealed excitement. “I cannot wait to see what you might find!”

Mr Roberts rolled his eyes. Some women – usually those of wealthy houses who didn’t need to work for a living – could be so unbearably childish sometimes. Still, he had only to endure Miss Cooper for this one morning. Unlike poor Will, who had chosen to spend his whole life with her – something that Mr Roberts still couldn’t quite understand.

“Let’s start with the older pieces,” he said to the porters instead. “Everything that’s been here longer than five years is unlikely to be claimed, so – unless there is an address within or anything else to help in finding the owner – they’ll be given to charity. There are too many penniless families in this city in desperate need for clothing, even if it has been worn by someone else.”

The older one of the porters, by the name of Broadhurst, a heavily built man with an almost alarmingly red face and bristly whiskers, who’d been at _New Street Station_ for almost as long as Mr Roberts himself, nodded in understanding.

“The oldest pieces are over there, in the right-hand corner,” he answered with a thick Yorkshire accent. “D’you want me to open them for you one by one, sir?”

“That would be the best,” agreed Mr Roberts. “That way we can search them for clues in peace, while Crabtree here can help Mr Stoner deal with the newer ones.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The younger porter, a fresh-faced lad in his early twenties, dutifully followed his orders, and for the next couple of hours they were all unpacking and re-packing the trunks and suitcases… with the enthusiastic help of Miss Cooper who didn’t seem to mind the years-old dust soiling her fashionable dress. Her curiosity was clearly stronger than her vanity, at least for the moment.

Most of the aforementioned trunks and suitcases – especially the more recently found ones – had a label on the inside of their lids with the name and the address of their owner, or some calling cards, or a couple of letters with full addresses on the envelope among the pieces of clothing. Mr Murdoch, the clerk of the Lost Luggage Department (another one of Mr Robert’s protégées) meticulously noted all the names and addresses, together with the type of luggage and the date of their finding, on his inventory list. 

At _New Street Station_ everything had its proper order and was done with the proper care. Mr Roberts had seen into it for the last thirty-five years, and the results showed.

Lunchtime drew close and they were nearly finished when Broadhurst heaved the last two pieces onto the counter. One of them was a travelling trunk from the type daughters of middle-class families had taken with them for longer journeys abroad fifteen or twenty years previously: a flat-topped trunk, four feet eleven inches wide and one foot eight inches deep and high.

It clearly had seen some wear and tear because the brown leather covering it was faded quite a bit and the small brass nails with which it was studded along the edges had become tarnished and dull, as well as the large, square clasp that closed the lid. Two leather straps, also closing with brass buckles, served to help keeping the lid fixed, but one of the straps was broken, half of it missing. The leather handle in the centre of the lid was equally worn.

The suitcase, considerably smaller than the trunk was in even worse condition. The cheap covering was peeled off in several places, especially at the corners, and the frayed handle was tightly wrapped with a piece of string to give it more stability.

According to the labels stuck onto them by station personnel, they were both found on the same day, on the same platform: on September 16th, 1879. The platform had been the one for the train coming from London and heading to the north.

“I remember these,” said Mr Roberts. “I noticed them left on the platform after the train had steamed out again on its way north. I was already a senior clerk back then, so I had them brought to Mr Murdoch’s predecessor. They were placed in the Lost Luggage Department until somebody came to claim them.”

“Yet no-one came, apparently,” commented Mr Murdoch softly.

Mr Roberts nodded. “No, they did not. I intended to open them a few weeks later and find out as much as I could, so that the owner might be traced, but I a few days later I was promoted to Station Superintendent, and there was so much to do for a while until I learned how to run things smoothly that I forgot about the whole thing.”

“So they’ve been collecting dust here for the last ten years and no-one ever asked after them?” asked Miss Cooper in surprise. “Why wouldn’t people want their possessions back?”

Mr Roberts shrugged. “That could have been a number of reasons, Miss Gwyneth. We shan’t know more till we open them and take a look.”

“We might want Constable Davies present as witness while we are doing that, sir,” suggested Will Stoner seriously. “These things may belong to someone who’s fallen victim to a crime; and in that case it would be better for the police to see the contents first hand.”

Mr Roberts gave him a look full of almost paternal pride.

“An excellent suggestion, Will. Mr Murdoch, if you would give the police a call…”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Some of the new inventions were really a blessing, Mr Roberts mused, while Mr Murdoch competently phoned the nearby police station to call Constable Davies to the case. Phones, for example. In his youth, he’d have had to send an errand boy and wait for an answer for quite some time. Phones did the deed within minutes.

Within another twenty minutes or so arrived Constable Davies, a tall, tow-headed, curly-haired uniformed policeman in his early thirties, who usually dealt with problems concerning _New Street Station_. He came in with his helmet under his arm, radiating friendliness as was his wont.

In fact, he was the most amiable policeman Mr Roberts had seen in his whole long life. And very polite, too.

“Good day, Mr Roberts,” he beamed at the elderly gentleman. “How may I help you, sir?”

Then he spotted Miss Cooper and his expression clouded immediately.

“Has there been a… a _situation_ , sir?” he asked delicately.

A _situation_ usually meant that a lady of gentle breeding might have been caught doing something completely inappropriate for her standing and the utmost discretion was required to deal with the case.

Stealing was the most frequent offence. Some gentlemen thought that holding their wives and daughters on a short leash – financially – would be the right thing to do. Some of those wives and daughters, however, weren’t too happy with that and tried to help themselves as best as they could. Such unfortunate affairs were always difficult to handle. More so if the family were _truly_ prominent.

Another frequent problem was runaway maids, travelling with the stolen property of their mistresses, pretending to be ladies. Or pleasure women on the look-out for possible customers, molesting the gentlemen travelling alone on the train.

learly, the latter possibilities would be… well, _impossible_ in the case of such a well-known young lady as Miss Cooper. Money, though, could lead the most valorous people on the bent way, and Constable Davies was not looking forward to the necessity of persecuting somebody of Miss Cooper’s standing.

Fortunately for him, Mr Roberts reassured him in a great hurry. “Oh, no! Nothing like that, my dear Constable! All we need is an official witness while we open a few pieces of lost luggage that had not been claimed for ten years.

The blue eyes of Constable Davies lit up in relief – and with professional interest – upon hearing that.

“Do you believe that something might have happened to the owners?” he asked.

“We don’t know,” admitted Will Stoner. “At least the trunk must have belonged to a woman of a middle-class family, by the look of it. She might have died, she might have run off with an… er… unsuitable fellow in a bout of youthful rebellion. Whatever the case may be, her family would appreciate getting her belongings back.”

“I imagine they would,” said Constable Davies agreeably. “Well, then, who shall do the honours?”

“I’ll leave it to Will’s – Mr Stoner’s – capable hands,” replied Mr Roberts. “After all, this is his station now.”

“Thank you, Mr Roberts, sir!”

Beaming with pride, Will Stoner fished a small folding knife from his coat pocket, carefully inserted the tip into the opening of the clasp and tried to turn it. After a couple of tries, the clasp finally gave and they could lift the lid of the trunk.

It was only three quarters full, the contents covered with some white material that was probably a neatly folded petticoat, the corners tucked in. On top of the cover lay a lady’s narrow-brimmed top hat, made of grey silk and a pair of grey kid leather gloves, the glove stretchers still stuck in the fingers.

But what caught Constable Davies’s attention at once was a long, narrow, cream-coloured envelope. It was addressed to a certain Mr W. Spice in Hawkhurst; but when the Constable opened it, the latter within was written for a woman.

“It’s from _The Grand Hotel_ , here in Birmingham,” he said in surprise. "They acknowledge a reservation for the 6th of September1789. Unfortunately, the name of the woman that had made the reservation is not here.”

“Perhaps if we ask the personnel of _The Grand Hotel_ ,” suggested Miss Cooper.

“It is unlikely that anyone would remember,” argued Will Stoner. “It’s been ten years...”

But Mr Murdoch shook his head.

“They would still have a guest book, or a list of reservations,” he said. “Every good hotel has one; and _The Grand Hotel_ is one of the best in Birmingham.”

“Then _The Grand Hotel_ it is where the inquiries should be continued,” decided Mr Roberts. ”However, that is the business of the police from here onwards. Close the trunk again, Will; we should not touch that which might be considered evidence.”

“But-but we haven’t seen yet what else is in the trunk!” protested Miss Cooper.

“No; and we shan’t do so, either,” answered Mr Roberts a little sharply. “We do have what we need: a direction in which the police can continue their investigation. There is no need to go through a lady’s personal belongings. That would be most improper.”

Miss Cooper pouted unhappily, but this was still Mr Roberts’s battlefield – at least for the moment – and he was adamant to respect the unknown woman’s privacy. Will Stoner therefore closed the trunk with the help of his pocket knife again, and Constable Davies promised to have it brought to the police station, where it would be kept secure till the end of the investigation.

“And now for the suitcase,” ordered Mr Roberts.

Will Stoner’s trusted pocket knife did the trick again; the suitcase could be opened without any great effort. Will lifted the lid, and for a moment, they all had an odd déjà vu experience.

Once again, the contents of the suitcase were covered with some white fabric; this time a man’s nightshirt.

Once again, the corners were tucked in neatly, with almost military accuracy.

And once again, a long, narrow, cream-coloured envelope lay on top of the white cover.

“That is... odd,” muttered Constable Davies.

“Perhaps we should take a closer look at the envelope,” suggested Miss Cooper.

She was reaching for it already when the stern voice of Mr Roberts stopped her.

“I believe we should leave that to Constable Davies, Miss Gwyneth,” said the old gentleman in a tone that brooked no argument.

Miss Cooper huffed in annoyance but did not try to snatch the letter for herself, as had clearly been her first intention.

Constable Davies picked up the envelope gingerly, as if he were afraid that it might burn his fingers, and looked at the sender address first.

“Well, I’ll be damned!” he cried in surprise; only to apologise in the next moment profoundly. “Sorry, Miss Cooper. I’m truly sorry. I was caught by surprise for a moment. This letter, too, is from _The Grand Hotel_ , it seems.”

Opening the envelope, he pulled out an official-looking letter and skimmed it briefly.

“Yes, indeed,” he then said. “It’s written by the hotel keeper, offering a certain Mr Anderson the position of the night porter. And what’s even more interesting: he was supposed to start working on the 6th of September 1879.”

“On the very same day for which the unknown woman reserved a room,” added Mr Roberts thoughtfully. "That cannot be a coincidence.”

“Hardly,” Mr Murdoch agreed. ”Even less so as both pieces of luggage were found on the same day, on the same platform, only ten days later. There _has_ to be a connection!”

“There most likely is,” said Mr Roberts. “And that is why we shall hand over both the trunk and the suitcase to the police. If anything untoward happened to either of those people ten years ago – or to both of them – it is up to the police to find out what it was.”

“Right so, Mr Roberts, sir,” said Constable Davies gravely. "I shall have both things taken to the police station at once. Inspector Bradstreet enjoys a good mystery, and he’s right good at solving them, too.”

“Bradstreet... Bradstreet...” Mr Roberts tried to will his memory to cooperate. Strangely enough, he found it easier to remember people and things from the more distant past than recent events. "Wasn’t he with the Sussex force before?”

“Until he married the missus, yes” supplied Constable Davies helpfully. “He’s been here for the last year and a half already.”

“A peerless fellow, that man,” added Mr Murdoch gravely. “We were lucky to get him when that terrible Inspector Jones went to Scotland Yard. At least now we shan’t have to worry that we might be arrested on a whim, just because the Inspector of Station House Three is having a bad day.”

“Oh, come on, Mr Murdoch, he wasn’t _that_ bad!” protested Will Stoner, but Mr Murdoch just shook his head grimly.

“Oh yes, he was. Tenacious as a lobster, I shall give him that much, but more often wrong than not, and never ready to admit when he _was_ wrong.”

The two porters, the Constable and even Mr Roberts stared at him in surprise. This was the largest speech any of them ever heard from the quiet, mild-mannered clerk. Inspector Athelney Jones must have made a lasting impression on him. 

Constable Davies made a mental note to find out what the conflict between Mr Murdoch and the inspector might have been. It was always useful to know such things.

“Right, then,” he finally said. "Thank you for bringing this to our attention. I shall send over someone this afternoon to bring everything to the police station, and we’ll look into it as soon as Inspector Bradstreet has a moment.”

“Thank you, Constable,” replied Mr Roberts. “And should you find out anything about the fate of the owners…”

“I shall inform you, sir,” promised Davies.

Then, with a courteous farewell to all, he was gone.

“Well,” said Mr Roberts,” it seems we are done here, too. It was more interesting than expected, but I am relieved that it is over, all the same. I cannot deal with too much excitement at my age. All this is yours now, Will,” he added, with a sweeping gesture towards the station, and if his eyes were a bit too bright while doing so, everyone pretended that they hadn’t noticed it.

“Thank you, sir,” answered Will Stoner with feeling. “I shall take good care of everything for you, I promise.”

“I know you will, my boy. I know you will,” Mr Roberts stood and grabbed his walking stick. “Well, I must be off. Much to do before I move, and Harper has gone to prepare my new home for me, so I’m on my own.”

“Crabtree could go with you and help,” offered Will, and the younger porter nodded eagerly. But Mr Roberts shook his head.

“You young people have your own work to do; and as of from now, I shan’t have anything else to do. Nothing else in the world; nothing but time that has to be filled somehow.”

He swallowed hard, then collected himself and walked out of the Lost Luggage office without a backward glance.


	2. Police Investigations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The places mentioned in this chapter are really existing ones, like _New Street Station_ or _The Grand Hotel_. I’m aware of the fact that there was no such thing as a “Birmingham Constabulary”. I invented it, based on what we saw about the Toronto Constabulary in “The Murdoch Mysteries”, so that I could invent a Chief Constable, someone like Agatha Christie’s Colonel Melchett, because I needed him for the future plot development.  
>  The details concerning the Birmingham Police Force are genuine, however. They are borrowed from the excellent article “On the Beat in Birmingham” by David Cross in BBC History. Instead of a Chief Constable, they had a Superintendent as the chief official who was indeed Francis Burgess.  
> The Inspector Bradstreet featuring here has the personality traits of Inspector Baynes of the ACD canon. I just switched the names because I liked the name Bradstreet better.  
> For visuals: Inspector Bradstreet is “played” by no-one lesser than Steven Moffat himself, while Miss Evans is “played” by Emilia Fox. Constable Davies is, of course, Tom Prince.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 02 – POLICE INVESTIGATIONS**

The City of Birmingham was proud of the fact of being one of the few cities that had _not_ signed up to the _Charter of Incorporation_ , back in 1832; the charter that allowed towns and boroughs to levy a rate on householders in order to pay for street lighting and cleaning, pavements and for the provision of police, as formed in London by Robert Peel, two years previously.

Not that there would have been anything wrong with the newly established London police; on the contrary. They had proved useful and very effective, in a very short time after their foundation. But Birmingham had been jealous of its independence and didn’t want to copy what the Londoners were doing.

Instead of signing up to the _Charter_ , the councillors and magistrates of the City had requested – and been granted – permission to establish a police force of their own. Thus the Birmingham Constabulary had been formed in August 1839, with the Chief Constable at the top who was, as the description of his duties listed, “ _to direct the officers and men in their respective duties and to make such regulations with regard to the performance of them as he may find conductive to the interests of the service – subject to the approval of the Watch Committee_.”

The first officer shouldering this particular duty had been Francis Burgess, a barrister at Warwick, who’d happened to be a friend of Lord John Russell, the Home Secretary; the same official who had granted permission to establish the Birmingham Constabulary in the first place. He had retired a mere six years ago, succeeded in the office by Colonel Jacob Holroyd.

As in other cities, the constables _were_ the backbone of the force; an ever-present sight on the streets in their top hats and tailed jackets. This uniform represented both authority and servitude, for although the police were considered public servants, they were also the public’s masters. On duty, the constables carried a truncheon, hand cuffs, an oil lamp, a small wooden rattle to get people’s attention and, in some of the more dangerous areas, even a cutlass.

Plain-clothes detectives were introduced a few years later. Their main duty was to circulate lists of stolen property and to check pawnshops as well as investigating more serious crimes. They worked under the guidance of the Detective Inspector. The Detective Inspector was often responsible for the attendance of police officers at court and was therefore able to meet the most regular criminals. Because of this, he needed a good memory for names and events.

Inspector Samuel Bradstreet, leader of the Station House Three of the Birmingham Constabulary, _was_ blessed with an excellent memory… not to mention with an appearance that commanded respect from both the public and the criminal classes. He was a stout official of middle height, with a ruggedly handsome, sharply lined face, black hair that had yet to begin greying and well-groomed sideburns that would have made a Naval officer proud. 

Unlike the detectives under his guidance, he stood out from his surroundings by wearing a peaked cap and a frogged coat. The latter was a reminder of his years spent as a uniformed officer. Years that he was _not_ ashamed of; on the contrary. He often declared the importance of the uniformed troops in keeping up order, and his constables respected him even more for that.

At the moment he was standing in his modest office, eyeing suspiciously the two battered pieces of lost luggage, brought over from _New Street Railway Station_ and currently sitting on a low table in the corner.

“Can you explain me, Andrew, what this is and what am I supposed to do with it?” he asked Constable Davies morosely.

“These were the oldest pieces Mr Roberts found while cleaning out the Lost Luggage Department before handing it over to his successor,” explained the Constable. “We have found some leads to the possible owners, but as they have failed to claim their possessions for the last ten years, there is a strong possibility that either the luggage had been stolen and they didn’t know where to look for it, or that they might have fallen victim to some serious crime. Mr Roberts asked us to take a look, in the hope that we might figure out what happened.”

The Inspector nodded thoughtfully. Such things were part of their regular duties, even though he had little hope that they might actually succeed in this particular case. Too much time had gone by already.

“We might as well do so,” he said. “Crime has been, thankfully, slow in recent weeks; we can afford to do a bit of detective work. It would also give us the chance to try out the new camera Colonel Holroyd got us last month.”

Constable Davies beamed over his entire visage. Cameras were relatively new in police work but embraced enthusiastically. The first pictorial record had been taken in 1858, in a studio next to the station in Moor Street. Station House Three had got its first camera several years later, and only when Colonel Holroyd had taken over as Chief Constable would each station be equipped with their own darkrooms to develop the photographs.

Constable Davies proved to have a gifted hand with new technologies, so using the camera had been assigned to him as a special task. So far, he had not found a reason to try out the new model and was now eager to do so.

“I shall go and set up the camera at once, sir,” he offered.

Inspector Bradstreet shook his head, though. 

“You’ll have time to do so later,” he said. “I, however, shan’t; not with the disciplinary issue against Leach taking place tomorrow morning. Let us write up the contents of both trunk and suitcase on a numbered list, and you can make your photographs following those lists when you find the time. After ten years, a day or two’s delay would hardly count, I suppose.”

Constable Davies happily agreed with the plan. Like all unmarried constables, he lived in the police station, in one of the rooms upstairs, so coming down and doing some additional work wasn’t a great hardship for him. Less so if said work had something to do with photography or other technical matters.

He was one of the day constables, with his beat being _New Street Station_ and the streets surrounding it, keeping those streets free from hawkers selling goods from suitcases, moving on persons causing and obstruction and looking out for children playing on the street. 

All these were important tasks, especially in and around a railway station, but they did not require actual detective work. Taking photographs of evidence – or of _possible_ evidence, at least – on the other hand _was_ detective work; and a very useful skill if one intended to lay down the uniform and become a plain-clothes detective one day. Which was his not-so-secret ambition.

Inspector Bradstreet knew of this ambition and encouraged Davies to work towards it. He even assigned to him tasks where he could prove his skills that went beyond traffic or fire duty. Like working on such odd founds.

Therefore, the Inspector called in Miss Evans, the station’s only clerk, to write down the aforementioned lists. Miss Evans was a sharp, energetic spinster in her forties (no-one knew what _exactly_ that vague definition meant and no-one dared to actually ask), dressed only a touch above her actual status, with an unruly mass of greying, straw blonde hair that valiantly resisted any effort to keep it in some sort of order. She also wore a _pince-nez_ , rimmed with gold wire, and oversleeves of black satin cloth to protect her clothing.

All constables and even the plain-clothes detectives went in holy fear of Miss Evans, for her tongue was every bit as sharp as her mind, and she was never afraid to speak said mind, whether she was asked or not. She even stood up to the Chief Constable, if she had to.

Inspector Bradstreet valued her nonetheless. For not only was she tireless and very precise at work, she was also utterly discreet, despite her outspoken manners. She wouldn’t breathe a word about what she’d seen or heard during her working hours.

Now that she’d arrived with her inevitable writing set and notebook, they could finally begin. Inspector Bradstreet decided to start with the trunk, with the reasoning that ladies should go first.

As earlier at the Lost Luggage office, they retrieved the letter written by the housekeeper of _The Grand Hotel_ first, and the Inspector read it carefully.

“You must speak to this Miss Robinson, Andrew,” he then said to Constable Davies. “Assuming she’s still working there.”

“She is,” supplied Miss Evans, while jotting down the item in her notebook. “She was in here last week, about some thievery in the hotel.”

Miss Evans _always_ knew such things; another reason why Inspector Bradstreet found her so valuable as a clerk.

“Excellent,” said he. “See that you speak with her as soon as you can, Andrew. Today, if possible. Tomorrow, if you are too busy today.”

“But sir, I cannot leave my beat,” the Constable dutifully reminded him.

“Yes, you can if I send you,” replied the Inspector. “Now, let us see what else is in this trunk!”

They began to remove the items systematically, starting with the silk top hat and the gloves that lay right under the letter from _The Grand Hotel_.

“Look at these gloves, Miss Evans,” said the Inspector. “Clearly, they must have belonged to a woman. You as a woman, what can you say about them?”

Miss Evans fingered the gloves carefully, as if concerned that her chapped fingertips might cause any damage.

“They are size 6 1/2,” said she, “So the lady to whom they belonged was probably a slim person with small, delicate hands. They were made by a very good glove-maker: look at the fine stitches; and hand-sewn, too. Fine workmanship, but not overly expensive. Something a lady from the upper middle class would wear. The wife or daughter of a well-to-do merchant, or of a businessman would be my guess.”

“Thank you, Miss Evans, you have been very helpful,” said the Inspector. “Pray return to your work as we continue. I might ask for your expert opinion later, should we find other items of ladies’ clothing.”

The next thing they found was a book, however; one bound in floral-patterned paper, save for the strip over its spine that was faded moss green. Faded were the gilded title and the name of the author written in black upon the front cover. It was one of those romance novels that had been so very popular among the young ladies ten years previously: “Wrongs Righted”, penned by a Miss Annie S. Swan – an author neither man had heard before.

Written on the top of the first right-hand page was a name: Alice Spice.

“Perhaps the owner of the book,” suggested Constable Davies. “It’s the same surname as on the letter. Perhaps the wife or the daughter of that gentleman from Hawkhurst?”

“Good thinking, Andrew,” the Inspector leafed through the novel and held up the postcard that had obviously been used as a bookmark.

“Ha!” he exclaimed. “Look at this?”

The postcard was not addressed to anyone in particular and contained a single, short message: _5 pm Boat Train, Restaurant Car_

“Do you believe that this could be of importance, sir?” asked Constable Davies doubtfully. “A great many people travel by the Boat Train. And it is not even addressed to Miss Spice. She might have found it and picked it up to use as a bookmark.”

The Boat Train travelled to Dower to meet the passenger boat crossing the Channel to Calais. Another train met the boat there, taking the passengers to Paris. It was a comfortable and very popular method of travelling, used indeed by a great many people, as Constable Davies had rightly pointed out.

“That is possible, of course,” allowed the Inspector. “But it is also possible that Miss Spice was to meet somebody on the Boat Train, and the postcard does not have any address on it because it was originally sent in a sealed envelope. Perhaps we shall find an answer when we’ve finished going through the trunk.”

However, what came next were – as they were politely called – a lady’s unmentionables: a white camisole as generally worn under the corset, a pair of lady’s bloomers, made of the finest white cotton, a long-sleeved night dress of white linen, and a white petticoat, pleated and trimmed with frills.

By then, poor Davies was beetroot red and highly uncomfortable, thus Inspector Bradstreet had pity on him and asked Miss Evans to help with the unpacking and Davies, who had a neat enough hand, continued writing up the inventory list.

The clothes brush and sewing set, complete with needle case and thimble, were not truly surprising, but the next item confused even the Inspector who had seen his fair share of odd things.

“What is _this_?” he asked, holding up a long, slim… thing that had a wooden handle on one side and was covered with soft leather on the other one.

Miss Evans, however, barely gave it a glance.

“Oh, just a nail buffer,” she said dismissively. “Ladies use them to make their fingernails shine. They were quite popular ten years ago when they came into use for the first time; every young lady had one. The fanciest ones even had handles inlaid with mother-of-pearl or ivory.”

Inspector Bradstreet cast an involuntary glance at _her_ fingernails, which were short and blunt, with two of them broken.

“Not women like me,” she added with a crooked smile. “Those who did not need to work, you know.”

The Inspector shook his head ruefully. It would have been hard to imagine the resolute, hard-working Miss Evans polishing her fingernails idly with one of these things.

The next item confirmed their theory that they were going through the possessions of a reasonably wealthy woman. It was a lady’s walking dress in what had been the latest fashion at the time the trunk was found – and a very expensive one at that, made of heavy, pearl-grey silk, with a pale blue underskirt that was richly trimmed with pleats, flounces, rouching and frills. It had a form-fitting bodice with tight sleeves that again were trimmed with frills.

“I remember when these became the new fashion,” commented Miss Evans with a very un-ladylike snort. “All of a sudden, bell-shaped dresses worn with hoops were counted as old-fashioned, and well-to-do ladies had to change their entire wardrobe in the shortest possible time if they did not want to be left behind by their friends. Exchanging the hoop for the bustle was an almost hysterical affair. More so as the new style was only flattering for those of a slim build.”

“Which this young lady clearly was, judging by the narrowness of the bodice,” said the Inspector.

Miss Evans nodded. “True; though a tightly laced corset could do wonders for a lady’s fashionable shape.”

“But-but that cannot be healthy!” protested Constable Davis, being a somewhat naïve young man with little to no experience with women’s vanities. “Or _comfortable_!”

“Neither of which is its purpose,” countered Miss Evans dryly.

Next, they found an empty perfume bottle, made of cut glass, with a bubble pattern decorating its surface. Then came a lady’s card case, made of wood, with ebony and ivory veneer. Inside was a single calling card, belonging to Miss Alice Spice, Westminster, London.

“Hmmm,” commented Inspector Bradstreet with interest. “Wasn’t the letter of _The Grand Hotel_ addressed to a Mr Spice in Hawkhurst, yet clearly meant for a woman?”

Constable Davies studied the letter that had been lying on top of the other contents of the trunk, together with the leather gloves and the silk hat.

“Indeed, sir,” he said. “A daughter perhaps?”

“Or an unfaithful wife,” replied the Inspector. “We’ll see later, hopefully. Set it aside, Davies, together with the letter and the postcard that she used as a bookmark. Written evidence can contain hidden clues that may bring light in the most confusing cases if examined thoroughly. I learned this when I worked with the best detective of London while still with the Surrey force.”

“The chief of the London police?” asked Constable Davies, properly impressed.

Inspector Bradstreet shook his head, laughing.

“Oh no, my good man; not a police officer at all. I had the privilege to work on a few cases with a gentleman whose name has become renowned in the whole of Britain in recent years: Sherlock Holmes himself. It was a delight to compete with his extraordinary brilliance, in order to solve some truly twisted cases.”

“Do you believe he would enjoy our little local mystery, sir?” asked Davies.

“I rather doubt it,” answered the Inspector with a snort. “It would seem too mundane to him; I wager he could solve it by sheer deduction without even leaving the room; just by sitting here, surveying the evidence and then figuring out everything effortlessly.”

“He could truly do _that_?” 

Like just about everyone in England, Constable Davies _had_ read in the papers about the stunning mysteries solved by the great and mysterious Mr Holmes, but this was the first time he spoke to somebody who’d actually met the man in the flesh.

Inspector Bradstreet nodded. “That and much more. But I’m quite convinced that we can solve this particular riddle without his help.”

“He wouldn’t take the case anyway, I presume,” said Miss Evans tartly. “He usually works for rich and influential people, finding lost diamonds and solving bizarre murder cases. He would never waste his time on such a small problem as a piece of lost luggage.”

“ _Two_ pieces of lost luggage,” corrected Inspector Bradstreet. “And he doesn’t care who his client is or if they can pay for his services at all, if the riddle is interesting enough. The riddle is all he cares for, not payment of fame. Unravelling a mystery gives him the greatest satisfaction.”

“But what is the big mystery here?” asked Miss Evans doubtfully. “The owners of these things are already known. You can send a wire to these addresses, sir, and tell them to fetch their belonging, and that will be the end of it.”

“Oh, I don’t think it would be quite that simple,” said the Inspector. “Why hasn’t either of them collected their luggage for ten years? They were both connected to _The Grand Hotel_ , were expected there at the same time. Is that a coincidence? I find that a little hard to believe.”

“Do you expect us to find more coincidences, sir?” asked Constable Davies.

“We’ll know once we’ve gone through everything. Now, let’s see what other clues might be hiding in this trunk.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The remaining items in the trunk proved most interesting. Firstly, they found a little evening bag. Inside it was an advertisement for a performance of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ at the _Theatre Royal_ in Birmingham, as well as a ticket for the performance on Wednesday, 5th September, at 7.30pm.

“Dress Circle!” muttered Miss Evans with thinly-veiled envy. “She was sitting in one of the most expensive seats in the entire theatre.”

“ _If_ she went there at all,” said Inspector Bradstreet, handing the sheets to Constable Davies. “Put it there with the other papers, Constable.”

The next item was a writing set: a steel nib pen, an ink bottle, a pen tray made of brass and a penny black stamp. Nothing interesting there, as Constable Davies stated, somewhat disappointed, after dutifully telling Miss Evans that the ink now long dried out had once been blue.

“Is that relevant?” she asked in a tone that her personal answer would be a loud and resounding ‘no’.

“We can’t tell it just yet,” said the Inspector. “Better write down a dozen unimportant details than leave out the one that might prove vital afterwards.”

Next came some jewellery, scattered together in a small velvet box: a pearl necklace, an amethyst and pearl bracelet and a gold ring.

“The pearls are genuine,” declared Inspector Bradstreet, after having performed the biting test, “but the ring is plain, no inscriptions inside. Could it be a wedding band?”

“In any case, the size matches that of the gloves,” said Miss Evans, taking a closer look. “Could also be an inherited wedding ring, though, meant to be used for her own wedding at a later time.”

“She could still have been married,” argued Constable Davies. “Perhaps the gentleman in Hawkhurst can say. She wouldn’t have carried with her somebody else’s wedding band, would she?”

“Unless she wanted to prevent the marriage from happening,” replied the Inspector. “Guessing will lead us nowhere, though. We need more evidence to form a working theory.”

“What about this?” Constable Davies lifted a small blue velvet purse, adorned with faded golden tassels on both ends, from the bottom of the nearly empty trunk. “There’s some torn up paper in it; probably pieces of a letter or something more official.”

“Show me!” the Inspector held out a broad hand imperiously, and Constable Davies obediently piled seven pieces of yellowed paper onto his palm. 

Six of them were square pieces of roughly the same size. The seventh one was a long, narrow scrap and had been scrunched up in the corner of the blue purse.

The Inspector smoothed it out carefully and studied it with great interest.

At the top it said: _1875, Alice Spice, Spinster…_

Underneath it said: _Married in this church…_

And under that were two signatures: _Alfred Philip Anderson_

And _Alice_ … but the rest of the name was torn away.

“Ha!” cried out Constable Davies triumphantly. “So they _were_ married after all!”

“Do have the kindness of telling me who _they_ are, Davies,” said Inspector Bradstreet dryly.

The fact that he called his subordinate by surname instead of saying ‘Constable’ or simply ‘Andrew’ clearly showed his impatience.

“The lady whose trunk this is and the man whom the suitcase belonged,” explained Constable Davies.

“And you came to this brilliant conclusion based on which facts exactly?” asked the Inspector with a raised eyebrow.

“In the suitcase, the letter from _The Grand Hotel_ , is addressed to a Mr Alfred Anderson, resident in London, Westminster,” replied Constable Davies; then he added eagerly. “I can show you the letter, sir.”

“Later,” interrupted the Inspector. “We need to finish with the trunk first. A proper investigation must have a certain order.”

“But we _are_ finished with the trunk, sir!” protested the young constable. “There’s nothing else in there!”

“We still haven’t examined _these_ ,” Inspector Bradstreet handed the pieces of torn up letter to Miss Evans. “Would you be so kind, Miss Evans, as to fit the pieces together and see if you can read the letter for me? It is written in such a small hand, and my eyes are not what they used to be.”

“You really should consider getting some reading aids, sir; there is no shame in that,” commented Miss Evans, but she did what had been asked of her.

In an amazingly short time she had all six pieces sorted and fitted together, and they could see that it was a letter indeed. A rather short one, clearly written by a woman.

“It was sent from the _Hôtel du Lac_ , dated on 3rd August 1879,” said Miss Evans. “Where on God’s green Earth could that be?”

“It is hard to tell without further details,” replied Inspector Bradstreet. “It appears that every bigger lake favoured by gentlefolk in Switzerland, France, or even Italy does have an _Hôtel du Lac_. Is there anything in the letter that could help with the location?”

Miss Evans shook her head. “I’m afraid there isn’t, Inspector. Indeed, it is a very superficial letter; something a young lady would send her friend in a hurry, just to keep in touch, and part of it appears to be missing. Shell I read it for you now?”

“If you would be so kind,” said the inspector.

Unlike with the Constable, he tried to curb his impatience. Miss Evans was a very reliable co-worker; for that, he turned a blind eye on her minor character flaws; chatting away cheerfully while there were important things to focus on being one of them.

Miss Evans nodded and did as she was told.

 _Dear Alice_ , she read

_Hope you and Alfred are going all right. The family are here for a month, and hope it will be good for Miss Harriet, who has been real poorly this last few months. The scenery is very grand, but I miss home…_

Here Miss Evans looked up.

“The bottom strip of the letter is missing, sir,” she said, “but somehow the signature remained intact.”

“Truly?” that seemed to invigorate the Inspector. “That will help.”

“I don’t think so, sir,” said Miss Evans apologetically. “It’s simply signed as ‘Betsy’. As I said, a quick note from one young woman to another, in the usual informal style of young people in these days.”

“Oh, bother!” Inspector Bradstreet deflated visibly. “Well, it can’t be helped. We’ll have to look for other clues. Can you put everything but the written documents back in the trunk before we begin to examine the suitcase?”

“Of course, sir,” she replied with a faint grin. “It’s better for a woman to handle a lady’s… _private_ things anyway.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The resolute and most efficient Miss Evans needed only ten minutes or so to get the trunk packed again, while Inspector Bradstreet carefully stored away every piece of paper found in his briefcase, from the calling card through the postcard-used-as-bookmark and the theatre ticket to the pieces of torn up letter and scrap of marriage certificate. Then they turned their attention to the suitcase.

At first, it yielded nothing but the usual things a man on a journey would carry with him: a buttonhook, a moustache curler, a cut-throat razor with a piece of carbolic soap and a cheap hand mirror. More interesting were a pair of dumb bells, carefully packed away in a cushioned cardboard box.

“Impressive,” commented Constable Davies, giving one of the dumb bells a try and nearly dropping it on his feet, not having expected such a weight. “Our man was clearly mindful of his appearance and his health. He must have been quite athletic.”

Miss Evans snorted. “Mindful of his appearance perhaps – most men are peacocks, after all – but certainly not his health. Smoking is a bad enough habit in itself, but he also indulged in tobacco snuff,” she pulled a disgusted face. “Nasty stuff, it is.”

Inspector Bradstreet smiled indulgently. He was quite fond of Hedges snuff himself – the same brand as the tin of tobacco powder found in the suitcase – but he knew that women generally found it vile. His own wife couldn’t bear it, so he only used it in his office.

Both the rather battered silver cigarette case and matchbox were empty, though, so their owner had probably given up smoking in favour of the snuff. Whether it had been a good decision in the light of his marriage was another question entirely.

Next came a black overcoat – showing some wear and tear – and a matching black waistcoat. No surprise there; servants were generally expected to wear black. In the pocket of the waistcoat, though, they found an advertisement for a performance of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ at the _Theatre Royal_ in Birmingham.

“Now _that_ is interesting,” commented Inspector Bradstreet, comparing it with the one found in the trunk. They were identical. “And hardly a coincidence, I say. Is there a theatre ticket as well?”

Constable Davies did some more fishing in the waistcoat pocket and came up with a slightly creased ticket indeed.

“It’s for the performance on Wednesday 9th September, at 7.30 pm,” he said with gleaming eyes. “Again, the same as the other one.”

“Only that this is for the Gallery,” said Miss Evans, taking a look at the ticket. “ _He_ was sitting in one of the cheapest seats of the theatre.”

One of the seats in which _she_ was usually sitting. She was a theatre aficionado but could only ever afford a seat on the Gallery – and even that not all too often.

“It is a bit much of a coincidence,” said the Inspector in agreement. “Is there anything else in that pocket?”

“Oh yes, sir, indeed there is!” Constable Davies was all but jumping up and down in excitement as he pulled out a small white cardboard box – barely the size of two stamps fitted together – and handed it to his superior.

On the underside of the box was a short, hand-written message that said: _To my beloved Alice from Alfred_.

“Hmmm,” said the Inspector, having become an expert in conciliatory gifts during the years of his marriage, due to the long and irregular hours she had to work. “Seems like some sort of jewellery box… a rather cheap one, I say.”

 _He_ would never dare to try softening Susan’s mood towards himself with such cheap trash. His wife wasn’t demanding by nature, but she had good taste when it came to jewellery. She could afford it, too.

He opened the box to take a look. It was cushioned with a piece of fake silk, and upon it lay a square brooch, not longer than a woman’s little finger. It was made of nice enough silver filigree and set with small white gems – or rather pieces of cleverly cut glass, by the sight of them.

“Not much of a gift for a lady who owns a genuine pearl necklace,” said Miss Evans thoughtfully, “but perhaps he couldn’t afford anything better. A mismatched couple if I’ve ever seen one. That rarely turns out well; especially if the woman is the one with the money.”

“Perhaps she was attracted to educated men,” said Constable Davis, lifting two books out of the suitcase: _The Wonders of Electricity_ by Ascott R. Hope and _Sketches by Boz_ by Charles Dickens. “Some women, especially wealthy ones, like that sort of suitor.”

Inspector Bradstreet shook his head. “I don’t think that our Mr Anderson was an educated man. He most likely couldn’t afford a formal education. He seems to be self-taught, though; he clearly was interested in new inventions and liked to read books by Mr Dickens, which is commendable.”

“Do you like Mr Dickens’s writing, sir?” asked Miss Evans in surprise. “I find his stories make me all melancholy.”

“They do that,” allowed the Inspector. "Nonetheless, they have a unique charm. But enough of this. Let’s finish examining the suitcase.”

Next, they found a box of shirt collars, with two pairs of collar studs – rather nice mother-of-pearl ones, connected by a silver stud, so they were probably a gift from the lady of the trunk – a shirt and a separate collar, a nightshirt and a pair of long johns. Again, nothing a travelling man would not have in his luggage.

The next piece of interest was a photograph. The photograph of a middle-aged woman, wearing a bell-shaped dress; the sort that needed a crinoline to hold the shirts out.

On the back of the photograph was written by a spidery hand: _To Alfred, from your loving mother, Elizabeth Anderson_.

“There’s no date,” said Constable Davies, disappointed.

“No, but we can be certain that this photograph is at least ten years old,” replied Miss Ellis.

Both men gave her baffled look. She sighed and went on explaining them the change of fashion again. Men could be so hard at understanding such things.

“These sorts of dresses were only worn till 1879. That is when the new fashion came out: the bustle. Of course, some old-fashioned ladies _did_ refuse to accept it; or Mrs Anderson might have been too poor to be in fashion.”

“Or the photograph was already a few years old when given to her son,” added Inspector Bradstreet, examining the picture of the stern-faced woman arranged artfully in front of the fireplace again. He couldn’t find any clue of when it had been taken, though, so he put it away, together with the letter from _The Grand Hotel_.

Next the suitcase yielded a small tinware travelling cup, packed away in a matching case. Constable Davies unscrewed the round lid, removed it and sniffed.

“Ten years since it was used and one can still smell the whiskey,” he said. “Our Mr Anderson must have had a hip flask of whiskey to accompany him on his travels. The Missus probably did not approve, though.”

“Most likely not,” agreed Inspector Bradstreet. 

Some women had a queer reaction to their men drinking. His own wife was more tolerant in this area, but he was careful _not_ to get thoroughly drunk when he was likely to encounter her. She didn’t approve of _that_ , either, and she was the one with the money and the connections.

So far this had caused no quarrel between them, but he was well aware of the fact that Susan’s connections had secured him this enviable post in Birmingham and made sure not to provoke her too much. Fortunately for him, she was a patient soul with her own interests, but one could not be too careful though.

Especially when there was one’s imperious mother-in-law to consider.

The last thing in the suitcase was a pair of gaiters – the sort worn in the countryside to prevent mud splashing onto one’s trousers and to keep trouser legs dry. They were wrapped around the legs below the knee and either laced or buttoned up. This particular pair was the laced-up variety.

“That’s odd,” said Constable Davies. “What would a night porter of a fancy hotel need gaiters for? A gardener I would understand, or a stable hand. But a porter?”

“It might be some remnant from a previous employment,” said Inspector Bradstreet. “We’ll know once we’ve found that Mr Edmonds mentioned by the hotel keeper and spoken with him. Is that all?”

“No, sir,” replied Constable Davies, “There is also _this_.”

 _This_ was a scrap of paper lying on the bottom of the now empty suitcase. Davies fished it out and handed it to his superior. It appeared to be a strip from a marriage certification, with just a few random details remaining.

_… in the Church of St. John._

_Residence: 64 Tatchbrook Street, City of Westminster, London_

_Condition: Bachelor_

_Rank or profession: gardener_

“Well, that explains the gaiters,” said the Inspector. “And also gives us a few clues of which direction to begin our investigation.”

“What investigation?” asked a new voice from the half-open door; a voice with an accent that sounded like a haphazard mix of American and Scottish.

“And what are you doing here anyway, instead of dealing with the misdeeds of PC Leach?” continued the newcomer, entering the room without invitation. “Organising a charity fair for the widows and orphans of policemen killed in the line of duty?”

Inspector Bradstreet suppressed a resigned sigh. He had hoped to solve their interesting little mystery before the Chief Constable could catch wind of it. Apparently, he wouldn’t have such luck.

Colonel Holroyd had very clear definitions of what belonged under the jurisdiction of the Birmingham Constabulary and what didn’t, and the Inspector had the glum feeling that the mystery of the lost luggage would _not_ be seen as their problem by his superior.

“Just investigating some pieces of lost luggage, probably connected with persons who’ve gone missing ten years ago, sir,” he said, knowing all too well that said investigation would most likely end here and now.”


	3. Colonel Holroyd Weighs In

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For visuals: Colonel Holroyd is “played” by John Barrowman, while his wife Emily is “played” by Heather Craney. They are both OCs, with no equivalent in either the ACD novels or in the TV-series. Torchwood fans will know where they came from. *g*
> 
> The case of PC George Leach is a genuine one, marked in The Birmingham Police force ‘Default Book’ for 1939/40. I just moved it forward for half the century because I found it worth remembering. It doesn’t get into any detail about what ‘highly disgraceful behaviour in Church’ meant in this case, so I had to come up with that part myself.
> 
> The _Café Royal_ was not a really existing place in Birmingham. I made it up for my ladies to have a place to meet. The London clubs mentioned throughout this story, on the other hand, were. Some of them still are.
> 
> According to my amazing beta, Linda Hoyland, there wasn’t a woman coroner in Britain until 1951. I bow to her greater knowledge – consider Dr Sawyer the undue influence of “The Murdoch Mysteries”. :)

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 03 – COLONEL HOLROYD WEIGHS IN**

Colonel Jacob Holroyd, Chief Constable of the Birmingham Constabulary – affectionately called ‘Jack’ by his numerous friends, admirers and sponsors - was an imposing man, both in looks and by reputation.

Coming from a moderately wealthy family of lesser Scottish nobility, he had spent his childhood travelling with his parents and siblings across the Northern Americas, from Canada to the Mexican border, which provided him with a much broader horizon than people of his social class usually possessed.

Upon coming of age, he returned to Britain and joined Her Majesty’s armed forces, serving as an infantry officer in India and fighting in the Second Anglo-Afghan War, in which he was severely injured and therefore had to retire from active duty. During his recovalescence at home he met his current wife (the first one, an artistically inclined Frenchwoman by the name of Estelle having died young somewhere in Agra or Delhi, no-one was quite sure about that detail), a Miss Emily Craney. They married six months later, after Colonel Holroyd had fully recovered from his injury.

Miss Craney, heiress of a rich Birmingham industrialist, had been leading a very successful school for orphaned girls, where said girls could be taught and properly trained to earn a living once they grew up. Usually, they produced private teachers, nurses and servants for the wealthy, and said families were more than satisfied with the results.

Miss Emily was said to have enjoyed working with these poor, unfortunate girls (even though she scared them to death from time to time). She gave up it all willingly nonetheless to become Mrs Holroyd. She still kept a close eye on the school – she had to keep up the reputation of what she had built up there – but from the safe distance of a benefactress instead of that of a headmistress. 

It was more comfortable that way; besides, she had other social obligations, now that she was a married woman – and married to somebody from the country gentry at that! The Holroyds might not be particularly wealthy, but the marriage opened doors for her in society that previously had been closed. And no-one could deny that she looked radiant at the parties of Birmingham’s elite, due to her money and her excellent taste in clothes.

Unlike his wife, Colonel Holroyd was not particularly interested in changes of fashion. Oh, he was _always_ impeccably clad, Mrs Holroyd saw into _that_ , but – being an ex-soldier – his fashion style was pleasantly subdued. And, though he had the right to keep using his rank and wear a uniform on special occasions, he very rarely did so. Neither did he put the ribbons of his medals on his civilian coat as many retired officers tended to on social gatherings. He was a man remarkably indifferent towards his own past, who made a conscious effort to live in the present, knowing that this was the only thing one could truly do.

Currently, he was wearing a beautifully tailored, dark grey lounge suit with a crispy white dress shirt, a deftly wrapped white Ascot tie, fastened with a silver tiepin that had a diamond head. His collar studs were silver and set with diamonds. A dove-grey overcoat cut in the Chesterfield shape and with a short shoulder cape worn over it, plus a Broadway silk hat of the same colour completed the picture of fashionable wealth and importance.

Not that he needed such help to look imposing; he managed it well enough on his own. He was a tall man, well over six foot, with the breadth of chest and shoulders sufficient to fill out both uniform and civilian jackets most impressively. Due to his boyishly handsome features and very bright eyes, he looked considerably younger than he actually was, and his well-groomed sideburns gave his appearance a romantic flair.

He also had very white teeth, presumably due to the practice of chewing on a particular sort of tree bark, which he had learned from some primitive tribe on one of his many journeys. Whether _that_ was true or not, no-one could tell. But the fact remained that people instinctively closed their eyes when he smiled, to prevent going blind.

At the moment, however, he didn’t seem to be in a smiling mood. In fact, he looked thoroughly annoyed.

“Tell me, Inspector, why are you wasting time and effort on such mundane things as lost luggage when we have a disciplinary problem to solve?” he demanded. “Not to mention all the thieves and robbers and cut-throats that are still running free in our city? Do you two truly have so much time on your hands? Because we can easily remedy _that_!”

“It is more than just a case of lost luggage, sir,” Inspector Bradstreet tried to explain. “Mr Roberts found these in the Lost Luggage Department of _New Street Station_ while he was taking the inventory with his successor. They haven’t been claimed for ten years, and we found evidence that the owners used to know each other rather… intimately.”

“ _How_ intimately?” asked the Chief Constable, images of possible scandals clearly hushing by before his eyes.

“We’ve reason to believe that they were married to each other,” replied the Inspector. “They were both expected to stay in _The Grand Hotel_ at the same time, though arriving separately and perhaps from different places. Their luggage was found on the same day, left together on the same platform – and never claimed.”

“Ten years ago, hmmm?” said Colonel Holroyd thoughtfully. 

He’d still been in the Army at that time.

The Inspector nodded. “Ten years ago, sir. We assume that something might have happened to them or else at least one of them would have gone back for their things. Especially for the dress or the jewellery of the lady, both of which look rather expensive.”

“Hmmm,” the Chief Constable considered the issue for a moment. “Did you find out the identity of the owners?”

“Yes, sir,” answered Inspector Bradstreet. “The trunk apparently belonged to a Miss Alice Spice from Hawkhurst, while the owner of the suitcase was a Mr Alfred Anderson, from Westminster.”

“Neither Hawkhurst nor Westminster lies within our jurisdiction,” Colonel Holroyd reminded him. “We are not entitled to investigate outside Birmingham. Do you have the addresses?”

“Yes, sir. Fortunately for us, both had kept the letter from _The Grand Hotel_ , with verifications of room reservation and the offer of employment, respectively.”

“Excellent,” said Colonel Holroyd. “Send notifications to those addresses. If no-one comes to claim the luggage, say, within three months, all this will be given to the poor. Case closed.”

“But sir,” Inspector Bradstreet tried to protest, dismayed that he would lose the chance to solve such an intriguing little mystery, but the Chief Constable clearly was not in the mood to indulge in the personal whims of his subordinates.

“Not a word, Inspector!” he said warningly. “Not a word! You have a more urgent problem to deal with right now – a problem called PC Leach – and I strongly suggest that you do deal with it. I want that problem solved. Preferably yesterday.”

He didn’t wait for an answer – not that the poor Inspector would have one – just turned on his heel and stormed off, with a dramatic billowing of his shoulder cape. 

Inspector Bradstreet sighed dejectedly. He couldn’t deny that his superior had been right. The case of PC Leach needed to be dealt with – once and forever.

The somewhat hapless George Leach – a well-meaning lad but unfortunately of dubious character – had joined the force in last July. On 3rd September, he’d been found absent from his duty beat at 9 pm and found drinking in the _White Lion_ beer shop, in the company of whores and thieves. 

Not the best way to begin one’s career as a police officer, but Inspector Bradstreet decided to give him a second chance and only had him fined two day’s pay, hoping that he would learn from his mistakes. He was still very young, after all, and young people could be moulded.

For a while, it seemed that he had learned his lesson indeed. But a fortnight ago, George had been reported for ‘highly disgraceful behaviour in Church’ – apparently, he had gone blind drunk to evensong and then thrown up all over the Vicar – and the Chief Constable was adamant that he should be dismissed from the service.

Despite all of the lad’s shortcomings, Inspector Bradstreet was reluctant to dismiss him. Leach would have made a good constable, if only he could have got his drinking habit under control. Unfortunately, he seemed unable to do so, and after the latest scandal in church there was nothing the Inspector could do for him.

“All right, Andrew,” he said in resignation. “Try to fit everything into the suitcase again and put both it and the trunk into storage until – _if_ – someone comes to claim them. Miss Evans, do come with me. I cannot delay dealing with George any longer, and I need you to set up a written record. A shame, really, but this is a hole the lad has dug for himself.”

“What about the documents, sir?” asked Constable Davies. “Shall I take photographs, just in case?”

After a moment of consideration, the Inspector nodded decisively. “Yes, you should do that… just in case.”

After all, there was always a faint chance that he might do some investigation in his spare time – such as it was in these days.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Alice Spice?” asked Mrs Emily Holroyd with interest during afternoon tea, watching her husband over the rim of her teacup. “The daughter of Mr _William_ Spice of _Hawkhurst Old Place_?”

“You know them?” asked Colonel Holroyd, equally surprised. 

His wife was a vivacious blonde with a razor-sharp mind and excellent connections, all of which she concealed with fashionable clothing and a seemingly distracted manner that fooled most people. Even after several years of matrimony, he was surprised by the sheer amount of people she seemed to know.

She shrugged noncommittally. “Mostly from hearsay, in truth. Mr Spice is an old business friend of my father; they used to have dealings with each other a decade or two ago. I never actually met him, but I do know that his only daughter had run away with a most… undesirable man. She seemed to have come to her senses and returned home after a year or two… for a while anyway. She left again and never came back. That was…”

“Ten years ago?” asked her husband, and she nodded.

“That should be about right, yes. Do you think we might finally learn what happened to her? Can your people find out?”

Colonel Holroyd shook his head. “No, that is not their job. They cannot go to Hawkhurst or London to investigate. There are clearly drawn lines separating the jurisdiction of the respective police forces; it would lead to all sorts of problems if we tried to meddle with matters in somebody else’s territory.”

Emily rolled her eyes in exasperation. “Therefore Mr Spice is going to lose this unhoped-for chance to find his daughter – or at least to learn the truth about her fate – so that none of the police chiefs would get trodden on his toes? How very… _manly_ of you!”

Colonel Holroyd suppressed a sigh. Sometimes it wasn’t easy to deal with his wife. He was used to Estelle’s slightly vague semi-presence in his life; after _that_ , Emily’s abundance of energy could be exhausting.

“I can’t help it, dear,” he said. “Those are the rules; I don’t make them, but I have to follow them. Your friend can always engage a private detective. That is what these people do, isn’t it? Looking for missing persons. I assume Mr Spice is wealthy enough to afford it.”

Mrs Holroyd was far from being happy with that answer but she knew when she should not press an issue. She decided instead to write a letter to her father’s old business associate right after tea. Therefore, she retired to her private drawing room as soon as her husband had left for his club and instructed her maid to bring her writing set and stationary.

The maid, incidentally also called Alice, was a product of her girls’ school – a juvenile thief whom she had taken into her house because she believed in rehabilitation – and completely devoted to her. Which came in handy when she needed to get things done behind Jacob’s back.

Oh, she didn’t cheat on her husband! _That_ would have been mundane, and Emily Holroyd (née Craney), although of common birth, was _anything_ but mundane. But she liked to indulge in certain activities that, while generally harmless, were frowned upon when indulged in by well-bred ladies.

Like smoking.

Colonel Holroyd, being a man of strong moral principles, also disapproved some of his wife’s friends. One of those was Mr Langdale Pike, an old acquaintance of Emily’s father, whom Colonel Holroyd never called anything else but ‘that old gossipmonger’ – and not without a reason, if one wanted to be honest.

Another one was Dr Sawyer, the coroner working with the police, who was a perfectly respectable person as such. But even an open-minded man like Colonel Holroyd felt uncomfortable by the thought of a young lady of a good family cutting open dead bodies in the morgue. Meeting the same young lady in his wife’s saloon for tea was even more uncomfortable for him, as he was used to dealing with Dr Sawyer in her official capacity.

Mrs Holroyd preferred to have a quiet and restful house – which was why she didn’t have any children and insisted on having those of the servants out of sight as much as possible – therefore she simply kept many of her social activities from her husband. It was easier so, for both parties. And her trusted and devoted maid was eminently useful for running errands behind Colonel Holroyd’s back.

This time, however, it wasn’t necessary to do so. Not even dear Jacob – Emily _never_ called her husband ‘Jack’, that was something for the old Army mates, not for one’s lady wife – could find anything wrong with her sending a letter to Mr Spice about the sudden reappearance of his daughter’s belongings. In fact, she would spare the police the effort, wouldn’t she?

And if she was about to send Susan Bradstreet a little note at the same time she sent Alice to the post office, there was _nothing_ wrong with _that_. She and Susan were old friends, had gone to school together and remained in touch ever since. That Susan always could learn more about things going on in town through Police Station House 3 was just an added bonus.

Not from the Inspector, of course, who had the ridiculous idea that his wife had to be spared the ugliness he dealt with on a daily basis. Emily shook her head in annoyance. Men could be so blind sometimes! They accepted _other_ women – especially those of the lower classes – tp face said ugliness, indeed, to _live_ in it full time, yet they held on to the image of their own wives as fragile flowers that could not endure the hard facts of reality.

 _Nothing_ had less likeness to a fragile flower than Emily Holroyd. Or Susan Bradstreet, for that matter. But they both knew that trying to persuade their respective husbands of the fact would have been a hopeless endeavour.

They were grateful for the likes of Miss Evans, who were so flattered by the attention of the ladies above their own standing that they readily shared their knowledge about the daily events at the police station. Oh, they knew well enough _not_ to speak of anything that might hinder an ongoing investigation – they didn’t want to lose their work, after all – but the ladies were mostly interested in gossip anyway. Gossip could be very useful in their social circles.

Mrs Holroyd briefly considered the best order to do things that had to be done, and then she began to write. First the note to Mrs Bradstreet, as it was much easier to compose.

 _Dear Susan_ , (she wrote)

_I’ve heard some intriguing news about an old acquaintance of Father’s. I believe your source can provide us with more detail. Meet me at the Café Royal for tea tomorrow; we had best discuss this in private._

_Yours affectionately,_

_Emily_

The _Café Royal_ was a fairly new, French-style establishment near the _Theatre Royal_ , for the performances of which it also sold tickets as a side-line – hence the name. Basically, it was a tea shop (offering several excellent blends), where one could sit in and have tea, coffee (of course the ladies preferred it with a shot of Armagnac, which pleasantly complemented the natural bitterness of the beverage) and a stunning variety of tarts, cakes, scones and other baked goods.

Men usually considered it beneath their dignity to visit it, calling it simply ‘that French place’ (even though the owner was a local woman with a good business sense) and refused to set foot in it. Which made the place eminently suited for ladies of the upper classes to meet and gossip without being disturbed. Emily Holroyd and her friends had patronised the café since it opened four years previously.

Having written the note for Susan, Emily now started on the longer – and much more formal – one for Mr Spice. It took her the better part of an hour to write it, and when she was finished, it looked like this:

_To: Mr William S. Spice_  
Hawkhurst Old Place  
The Moor 2  
Hawkhurst, Kent 

_From: Mrs Emily Holroyd_  
12 Church Street  
Birmingham 

_Dear Mr Spice,_

_You may not remember me, but I am certain that you remember my father, Mr Arthur Craney, with whom you have had business associations a few years ago. Based on this fact I hope you will forgive me for taking the liberty to contact you._

_It has come to my attention that a piece of lost luggage belonging to your daughter Alice had been found at New Street Railway Station, here in Birmingham. In fact, it has lain at the Lost Luggage Department of the railway station for the last ten years. It is sensible to assume that there may be clues that can help to find out what has really happened to Miss Spice._

_The police have decided not to make any further investigations into the case. My Husband, who is the Chief Constable of the Birmingham force, ordered the trunk of your daughter to be stored at Police Station House 3, in New Street, where it will be kept for the following three months, during which time you may claim it. After that, it will be given to the poor, with all its contents._

_My husband also says that the Birmingham Constabulary is not empowered to investigate outside their jurisdiction, which is why he has declared the case closed. You can, however, always engage a private investigator and have him look deeper into the matter._

_I hope you will be successful in your search and I ask you respectfully to inform me about the outcome of any potential enquiries, if you would not mind._

_Yours sincerely,  
Emily Holroyd_

Mrs Holroyd folded the letter, put it into the already addressed envelope and handed it to her maid, together with the brief note to Mrs Bradstreet.

“See that they are both sent at once,” she ordered.

“Yes, Madam,” answered the girl dutifully and, after a backward glance of pure admiration at her mistress, she hurried off.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At Police Station House 3, Constable Davies was struggling with a letter of his own. An official one, in his case.

Outside it was rapidly growing dark. He had gone off-duty a little more than four hours ago and been busy taking photographs of every single item in the trunk of Miss Spice and the suitcase of Mr Anderson. That would cost the police a pretty penny – he had to buy a new batch of chemicals to develop the pictures – but that was not his problem. Inspector Bradstreet had ordered the photographs taken; Inspector Bradstreet would have to take the blame. He, one constable among the many, was merely carrying out his orders.

Not that he would have wished Inspector Bradstreet to get in any trouble. On the contrary. The Inspector was a very considerate superior – small wonder as he had started his career as a uniformed officer, too – who always treated his subordinates most justly. The case of poor Leach showed what lengths he was willing to go for his men… until he could no longer do anything for them. Which he always regretted.

And Mrs Bradstreet, though everyone knew that _she_ was the one with the money, was always very nice to the simple constables and police clerks whenever she visited the station house. She regularly invited Miss Evans to that French place for tea, and Miss Evans was always beside herself – she couldn’t have afforded that on her modest salary. And when Mrs Bradstreet brought their son with her, a delightful lad of six years, little Louis was every bit as friendly to everyone as his parents.

Yes, they were nice people.

But Inspector Bradstreet was more than just that. He was a very good policeman; one with a shrewd understanding of human nature, a sharp mind and excellent attention to detail. His gut instinct rarely erred. One could learn a great deal by watching him at the scene of a crime. He noticed small things most other people would have overlooked and often solved a crime that baffled everyone based on these small details.

When praised for the results, he usually just shrugged in embarrassment and muttered something about having learned his methods by watching Sherlock Holmes at work. Constable Davies could believe that easily. After all, he had been trying to do the same for years, by watching Inspector Bradstreet.

There was one thing the Inspector wasn’t good at, though, and that was writing letters to the families of murder victims or missing persons they hadn’t been able to find. Fortunately, he didn’t have to do that often; most victims were from Birmingham, where he could simply send a constable to escort their family members to the station house and speak with them in person.

This time, however, he couldn’t get around it. To his relief Mrs Holroyd had turned out to know the father of Miss Spice and offered to write to him; but there was still the letter that had to be written to Mr Anderson’s mother – assuming that she was still alive and still lived at the same address her son had ten years ago.

Taking pity on his superior, Constable Davies had offered to write the letter himself. He was generally very good with witnesses and the victims’ families. They seemed to like him and trust him at once. So he thought it would be an easy enough task. He’d never expected it to be so hard when he couldn’t _see_ the person whom he was telling the bad news.

Or the complete lack of _any_ news, in this case.

“Difficult, eh?” asked Higgins, the night constable, gently and walked down from the front counter to look over his colleague’s shoulder.

He was a large, stocky man with a surprisingly soft, deep voice and a huge, iron-grey beard that would have made Saint Peter blanch with envy. All night constables were required to grow a beard that ‘would cover their throat to keep their air tubes warm’, as the regulations released in 1840 – and not changed ever since – instructed, but Constable Higgins made a work of art of it. 

He was very proud of his beard, and as he had no wife to complain about it, he could allow it to grow as long and bushy as he pleased. The street urchins sometimes herded into the station house (usually on freezing winter nights when they would otherwise freeze to death on the streets) loved him for it and called him Grandfather Higgins, which only made him even prouder.

“It _is_ difficult,” admitted Constable Davies. “How are you supposed to tell an elderly lady that her son has apparently gone missing ten years ago and is probably dead, yet no-one has ever cared to look after him?”

“Why should your tell her anything like that?” asked ‘Grandfather’ Higgins. “We don’t _know_ that, do we? All we know is that a suitcase apparently belonging to her son was found, after having gathered dust in a forgotten corner of the Last Luggage Department for years. Everything else is merely guesswork.”

“Are you saying I should write just _that_?” protested the younger policeman.

Constable Higgins shrugged his massive shoulders.

“Those are the _facts_ , Andy. Why bother her with any of your theories? It is possible that Mr Anderson simply didn’t remember where he’d lost his suitcase and to have been living without it safe and sound in his mother’s house all these years.”

“Possible… but not very likely,” said Constable Davies, and the older man nodded in agreement.

“No, it isn’t. But she doesn’t need to know _that_. Now, write the ruddy letter and go to sleep or you’ll be of no use on the beat tomorrow.

Constable Davies knew that his older, more experienced colleague was right. He would need his wits about him in the morning when he took up his duties again; and for that, he needed sleep.

One more time he gathered his thoughts and began to write.

_Madam,_

_It is my duty to inform you that a suitcase belonging to your son, Mr Alfred Anderson, has been found at the New Street Railway Station in Birmingham, after it had been stored at the Lost Luggage Department for years. You or any other member of your family can claim the suitcase any time in the next three months, after which it will be given to the poor._

_Please state your intentions regarding your son’s belongings._

_Yours faithfully,_  
Police Constable Andrew Davies,  
Police Station House 3  
New Street, Birmingham 

He addressed the envelope to Mrs Elisabeth Anderson at 64 Tatchbrook Street, City of Westminster, London, put the carefully folded letter and a newly developed photograph of the suitcase into it, sealed it and handed it to Constable Higgins.

“Can you send it out with the rest of the official post in the morning before you go off-duty?” he asked, and the older constable nodded.

“Will do. See that you get some decent sleep, lad.”

“I intend to,” replied Constable Davies with a heartfelt yawn and then he left for his room.

It had been a long day, and the next one promised to be no shorter; although, perhaps, a little less exciting.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Does this mean that the police won’t do anything to find out what happened to these people?” demanded Miss Gwyneth Cooper in bitter disappointment the next afternoon.

She was sitting with her friends in the _Café Royal_ , having tea. On this particular afternoon, the exclusive circle of local nobility included Mrs Holroyd, Mrs Bradstreet and Dr Sawyer, the police coroner, and herself. There were others who belonged to it – all coming from the upper classes of Birmingham, their status based on money rather than birth, with the exception of Dr Sawyer.

But it was always Mrs Holroyd who invited the individual members to these little get-togethers, her selection based on the occasion. She was the unchallenged head of their group, being the only one married into the country gentry.

Well, Dr Sawyer _could_ have challenged her – she was the eldest child of a local landowner, after all – but she had no ambitions to do so. A shy, graceful and strangely vulnerable person – at least for somebody who worked in a morgue – she was content to remain in the background and leave the role of the leader to the resolute Mrs Holroyd.

“James _wanted_ to,” replied Mrs Bradstreet. “He likes his mysteries. But Colonel Holroyd said he couldn’t. Both people came from outside their jurisdiction.”

She was a short, athletic blonde with a mobile, though not particularly beautiful face, attractive through her energy, intelligence and unfailing fashion sense rather than her looks. Right now, she seemed moderately annoyed on her husband’s behalf; she was a devoted and very loyal wife.

Mrs Holroyd nodded. “Unfortunately, that is true. There are regulations for these things. And Jacob is fairly new to the office; he cannot afford to step on anyone’s toes.”

“Neither can James,” admitted Susan Bradstreet with an unhappy sigh. “It bothers him very much, though. He doesn’t say so, but I can see. He’s got this particular expression, you know,” she frowned fiercely to demonstrate. “He _always_ has this expression when something bothers him; mostly something related to his work.”

Miss Cooper ignored her. She couldn’t care less about Inspector Bradstreet’s peace of mind, although not even she was scatter-brained enough to say it. One did not cross Susan Bradstreet when it came to her husband.

“I understand you used to know one of the victims?” she asked Mrs Holroyd instead.

“We don’t know if there _were_ any victims to speak of,” corrected Emily Holroyd. “There could have been a number of reasons why these people haven’t come back for their luggage. A number of perfectly _innocent_ reasons.”

“But you don’t think so, do you?” asked Miss Cooper slyly.

Mrs Holroyd shrugged and looked askance at Mrs Bradstreet.

“It seems that those two had a connection,” replied the Inspector’s wife carefully.

She could have spared herself the effort as Miss Cooper pounced at once.

“What kind of connection? Did they have an illicit affair?” The possibility seemed to delight her unduly.

“No,” said Mrs Bradstreet dryly. “Apparently, they were married. To each other,” she added, mostly for Miss Cooper’s sake, who was inclined to draw the most scandalous conclusions.

The other ladies gave her admiring looks for finding out such important details in so short a time.

“Are you sure?” asked Mrs Holroyd. “Admittedly, I never actually met Alice Spice, but her father and mine did business together and I never heard that she’d have married.”

Mrs Bradstreet nodded. “Quite sure. Two individual pieces of their torn up marriage certificate have been found in her trunk and in the man’s suitcase, respectively.”

For a moment, the ladies were stunned with surprise.

“Now _that_ is interesting,” said them Mrs Holroyd slowly. “I wonder if Mr Spice knew about the marriage at all.”

“If he did, he would not have approved,” answered Mrs Bradstreet. ”According to the marriage certificate the man was a mere gardener; hardly suitable for a wealthy industrialist’s little girl.”

“Mr Spice is more than just a rich man,” said Dr Sawyer,.speaking for the first time. “He is the last living member of the Ellsworth family that used to own Hawkhurst and some of the adjacent lands. Few people know this, of course, as the last actual Ellsworth was his mother, but it is true nonetheless. He’d have wanted a more suitable husband for Alice; had he known about her intentions, he’d have found a way to prevent this marriage.”

“You knew the girl, then?” asked Mrs Holroyd.

Dr Sawyer nodded – vaguely, as she did everything aside from her work.

“We met a few times when I was very young; my mother had family in Kent. And we visited _Almack’s Assembly Rooms_ in London at the time when we were just coming of age, at our parents’ insistence. But we never truly socialised with each other.”

“ _Almack’s_?” Mrs Bradstreet frowned. “Wasn’t it closed in 1871 or so? I remember my mother complaining about it; not that we’d ever been members there.”

“It was sold and renamed _Willis’s Rooms_ ,” corrected Dr Sawyer. “But no-one truly used the new name. Everyone still called it _Almack’s_ , and why shouldn’t they? It was a perfectly good name, with a long tradition. It was stupid to have it changed.”

“I heard it never was the same afterwards,” said Mrs Bradstreet.

Dr Sawyer shrugged. “Perhaps. It was still a pleasant place with much dancing and gambling. The refreshments were not as opulent as those of private balls; mostly thinly sliced bread with fresh butter and dry cakes, and only tea and lemonade were served in the supper rooms, just like in old times.”

The other ladies stared at her in surprise. It was the first time ever that they would hear the shy doctor speak so much.

“You _liked_ the place,” realised Mrs Holroyd.

“I did,” admitted Dr Sawyer. “Even if it was a thinly veiled marriage mart for gentlemen of good families looking for suitable brides. But the dancing was enjoyable, and it was one of the very few places where you could meet unattached young gentlemen without gaining a bad reputation. And their gambling rooms were grand,” she added, blushing. “I always liked playing cards.”

Mrs Holroyd smiled benevolently. As a married woman of some importance, she generally showed a maternal attitude towards Dr Sawyer, although the doctor was barely two or three years younger.

“We all like a little gambling to spice up our life,” she said; then she turned to Mrs Bradstreet. “And your husband just told you about the marriage?”

“Of course not,” replied Mrs Bradstreet with a rather un-ladylike snort. “James _never_ tells me anything about his work, you know that. But I did pay Station House Three a visit this morning and took Louis with me. You know how all the women love him. And while Miss Evans was suitably distracted by entertaining him, I managed to take a look at the inventory lists she’d written yesterday. Constable Davies even had a bunch of photographs taken that were very conveniently placed on James’s desk.”

The ladies exchanged delighted smiles. Susan Bradstreet had always been the most skilled and most adventurous one among them. Besides, it wasn’t _their_ fault that their respective husbands – or _future_ husbands, in Miss Cooper’s case – treated them like children.

Like somewhat slow-witted children, at that.

“A shame that you could not… er… _borrow_ some of the photographs,” said Miss Cooper, clearly a little disappointed. I’d have loved to see what was in that trunk. And in the suitcase.”

“Nothing of true interest; at least not what I can tell, based on the inventory lists,” said Mrs Bradstreet. “Save for the fact that Alice Spice obviously had poor taste in both books and men; though a good fashion sense. That walking dress of hers would still be looked at today. Ten years ago it must have been a marvel.”

“I wonder how she could afford it, having married somebody so much beneath her social status,” commented Dr Sawyer thoughtfully. “Unless she’d come to her senses and left him, preferring to go home.”

“That is exactly what might have happened,” said Mrs Holroyd. “I know she’d run away with a most unsuitable man but returned home after a fairly short while.”

“And yet she planned to meet her husband here in Birmingham,” pointed out Mrs Bradstreet.

“Did she, though?” asked Dr Sawyer doubtfully.

Mrs Bradstreet nodded. “Oh yes! It can be hardly a coincidence that they were about to stay at _The Grand Hotel_ at the same time. The question is what Miss Spice – or rather Mrs Anderson – wanted from her husband: reconciliation or a divorce?”

“If it was the latter, it couldn’t have been an easy task for her,” said Dr Sawyer, better versed in legal matters than the other ladies, due to her profession.

“No,” agreed Mrs Holroyd. “He would have legal access to her wealth, thanks to their marriage; and a penniless man like Mr Anderson would hardly give up his right to so much money.”

“Was Miss Spice truly so rich?” asked Miss Cooper, slightly envious.

“Her _father_ was – he still _is_ – very rich,” said Mrs Holroyd. “But she would have a generous monthly allowance, courtesy of her father. Mr Spice always doted on his only child. Which is why I’m fairly certain that not only will he come to claim her belongings but he will also engage a private investigator to find out the truth behind her disappearance.”

“You wrote to him?” asked Mrs Bradstreet, and Mrs Holroyd nodded.

“I wrote to him. And I have little doubt that a worldly man like him will find the right person to look into this case.”

“James will be disappointed,” said Mrs Bradstreet with a faint smile. “But at least we _will_ learn the truth, too, won’t we?”

“Oh, yes,” replied Mrs Holroyd with steely determination. “ _I will_ see to _that_.”

Much comforted by that promise – which, they knew, their friend would keep, no matter what – the ladies of Birmingham’s elite turned their attention to other matters of local gossip. There were minor scandals and sensations going on, after all, and they needed to keep up with everything that was happening, at any given time.


	4. The Excellent Connections of Mr Langdale Pike

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For visuals: Mr Spice is ‘played’ by Anthony Stewart Head, Mr Langdale Pike by Paul McGann.  
> The details about _Brooks’s_ are cited from the Wikipedia entry, with small alterations to fit this story. Langdale Pike is a minor canon character mentioned in the ACD short story “The Tree Gables”, from where his introduction is cited.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 04 – THE EXCELLENT CONNECTIONS OF MR LANGDALE PIKE**

_Brooks’s Club_ in St James’s Street was one of the oldest gentlemen’s clubs in London.

First established at 50 Pall Mall by Messrs. Boothby and James in a former tavern owned by William Almack – the same person as the one behind _Almack’s Assembly Rooms_ , for which the latter was often called ‘the female Brooks’s – the current clubhouse had been commissioned in September 1777 by William Brooks, a wine merchant and money lender who had acted as Master for _Almack's_ at that time.

The imposing two-storey building, constructed of yellow brick and Portland stone in a Palladian style similar to the architect’s early country houses, had been completed in October 1778 and all existing members of _Almack's_ were invited to join.

The main suite of rooms on the first floor consisted of the Great Subscription Room, Small Drawing Room and the Card Room. The interiors were in neoclassical style and the Great Subscription Room had an impressive segmental barrel vault ceiling. 

To the present day, the interior of the building remained fairly unchanged, although there had been rumours lately about the neighbouring 2 Park Place, which had been purchased a few years earlier, being converted and adapted as part of Brooks's.

So far, that had not yet happened, and Mr William Scott Spice, a respectable countryman of about sixty, dressed in a sack suit of dark winter weight wool and a splendid, tall browned bowler hat, was grateful for that. He was standing in front of the clubhouse and looking up at the triangular façade from the other side of the street, admiring of its clean, classical symmetry.

As a member of the country gentry and a wealthy industrialist whose interests were mostly invested in the Midland Railway, Mr Spice had been a member of _Brooks’s_ ever since he’d come of age. In his youth, he had spent more time in the famous gambling rooms of the club, staking fortunes on whist and hazard – and winning, almost without exception – than his parents would have liked. He had also taken part in the most eccentric bets the club had always been infamous for, including achieving membership in the ‘thousand-yard-high-society’(1), founded by Lords Cholmondaley and Derby in 1785.

All this, however, had been a long time ago. His friendship with the great astronomer Sir John Herschel, who had lived at _Collingwood House_ in Hawkhurst for thirty years, until his death, had turned young William Spice’s interest towards more serious and respectable issues.

Soon, he was making honest efforts to handle the family business well – and succeeded. Everything he’d touched turned to gold under his touch. But the luck he had in gambling and in business he appeared to severely lack in his private life.

His wife, married for her dowry not for love, had died in childbirth, leaving him behind with even more wealth and with a baby girl, left to the mercy of nurses and nannies. Despite this arrangement, Mr Spice loved his only child and could deny her nothing. As a result, Alice had grown up as a spoiled and pampered young lady who couldn’t even imagine that something might not happen according to her whims.

Therefore, it shouldn’t have been surprising that when Alice had met that low-life gardener at Mr Edmonds’s garden party and decided that she was in love and wanted to marry him, she wouldn’t listen to the voice of reason. She’d run off with him as soon as she turned twenty-one, at which age she would receive a handsome allowance from her late mother’s estate and married that peasant at the first chance.

It couldn’t last, of course. Living in poverty – or what somebody like Alice would _perceive_ as poverty, although many of the truly poor would have been happy to have a shard of it at their disposal – wasn’t as romantic as it had first appeared. Alice hadn’t needed much persuasion to leave her husband and return to the lush convenience of her childhood home.

What Mr Spice still couldn’t understand was why she would disappear again. Almost ten years ago, she’d simply announced that she wanted to visit a childhood acquaintance, Miss Sarah Sawyer, who was apparently living in Birmingham, had reserved a room in _The Grand Hotel_ , got onto the train – and never returned.

There had been no messages: no letters, no wire, and no telephone calls ever since. Enquiries at _The Grand Hotel_ in Birmingham led to no-where; Alice apparently never arrived there. Miss Sawyer – well, _Doctor_ Sawyer, as it turned out – hadn’t even been aware of Alice’s supposed intention to visit her, and there was no reason to doubt her words. Despite her questionable profession, she was a fine and noble young lady and honest to a fault.

Alice was gone, and no trace of her could ever be found… not until the day before yesterday.

The letter from Mrs Holroyd – dear little Emily Craney – had shaken Mr Spice badly. He barely remembered the daughter of his old business partner– hadn’t seen her in more than fifteen years – but he knew that she was doing well, One learned such things from mutual acquaintances – and from the papers, of course.

So yes, he knew that Emily had married that Scottish chap, the hero of the Second Anglo-Afghan war who had recently become Chief Constable of Birmingham. He just never thought that the position of Emily’s husband could be of any help in the search for Alice.

The search that he’d pretty much given up years ago.

And yet… and yet it seemed that a piece of lost luggage might cast some light into Alice’s fate, after all. Against all hope, he might learn what happened to his daughter.

It was almost too much to bear. But he _needed_ to know. And if the hands of the police were tied, as Emily’s letter had suggested, he would engage a private detective to find his child.

More than that: he would hire the best private detective in the British Isles. He would hire Sherlock Holmes himself.

For that, however, he needed the help of Langdale Pike, and _Brooks’s_ was the right place – the _only_ place, really – to find him.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Mr Langdale Pike was a fixture of London society – and a rather mysterious one at that. No-one could tell who he was, where he came from, if that was truly his name – or whom he had bribed to be accepted as a member of _Brooks’s_ , as he’d had no references at the time when he’d applied for membership.

None that a gentlemen’s club would find acceptable anyway.

And yet he’d been a fixture for the last couple of decades, spending his waking hours in the bow window of the Lesser Drawing Room of _Brooks’s_ , receiving and transmitting all the gossip in the city. He made, it was said, a four-figure income by means of the paragraphs, which he contributed every week to what Mr Spice secretly called the gutter press – papers that catered to an inquisitive public.

If anywhere, far down in the murky depths of London life there was some strange swirl or eddy, it was marked by Langdale Pike immediately. He was the human reference book upon all matters of social scandal – occasionally useful but generally disliked.

Not that _that_ would particularly bother him. He didn’t seek popularity; he sought knowledge – and contacts that would help him with the gaining of said knowledge, and leading the leisurely life of a dandy, he had enough time on his hands to build those contacts. As a result, he knew a great many people from all social classes, and that was why Mr Spice needed his help.

Rumour said that Langdale Pike was a causal acquaintance of Sherlock Holmes. Others even went so far as to assume that the two had gone to school together, but Mr Spice had the yearbooks of those schools checked in advance and knew that particular detail to be false – unless Mr Pike had attended to aforementioned schools under a different name.

Such things were known to happen: a prodigal son, changing his name – more or less voluntarily, depending on the need – to protect an old, respected family from his own, less than splendid reputation. Whatever this was the case with Mr Pike, though, was everyone’s guess.

Mr Spice had known Mr Pike for decades, but they hardly ever spoke to each other. Mr Spice had never been interested in gossip, not even back in his untamed youth, thus they had very little in common. And yet now he needed the very thing he always despised in the other man: his more or less ill-gained knowledge about other people’s affairs.

He had spotted the strange, languid creature from the other side of the street already, standing in the bow window with a cigar in his hand and looking down as he’d been expecting Mr Spice. Even from the distance of an entire storey, Langdale Pike was unmistakable with his long, angular, gaunt face, framed by dark, wavy hair that reached to his collar, and his square shoulders that seemed somehow out of place, compared with the rest of his otherwise narrow body. 

He was looking directly at Mr Spice, which wasn’t surprising, considering that Mr Spice had sent a note in advance and was therefore expected.

Entering the building, he was greeted politely yet unenthusiastically by the porter – the man was new at _Brooks’s_ , obviously, didn’t know him and clearly didn’t nurture any hopes for a sizeable tip from a man coming from the country – and allowed into the club by merely showing his calling card. The porter might not know _him_ , but he apparently knew his _name_. Either the man had memorised all names of past and present club members, or Langdale Pike had left instructions to send his visitor straight up to him. 

The latter seemed more likely, to be honest.

“Spice, my dear old chap!” Mr Pike greeted Mr Spice when the latter entered the Lesser Drawing Room. “It has been too long! Too long indeed!”

His tone was grave, as if announcing an upcoming funeral rather than greeting an old acquaintance; not that he’d have had any reason to celebrate a joyous reunion. It wasn’t as if the two of them had ever been close, and it was unlikely to change any time in the future. Besides, Mr Spice despised being called ‘old chap’. He was no-one’s ‘chap’, especially not that of a bored dandy who lived off of ruining other people’s good names.

However, this wasn’t the time of over-sensitive reactions. He _needed_ Pike; antagonizing the man would not help his cause.

“A long time indeed,” he agreed, sensibly omitting the addition of _not long enough_. “I was surprised to learn that you’ve moved into _Brooks’s_ permanently.”

Mr Pike made a dismissive gesture with the hand holding the cigar.

“Oh, you know how it is,” he said vaguely. “They have perfectly acceptable rooms on the second floor, and I pay them well. Why should I rent some shabby rooms from a horrid, mundane widow somewhere in the other end of the city when I can get everything I need here: good food, assorted drinks, fine entertainment, and the best company I can wish for. They even let me use one of the offices to write my articles.”

“Sounds practical,” said Mr Spice.

“Oh, it is,” replied Langdale Pike. “I have the source material right here, before my eyes. I can study my subjects like a scientist studies small insects under the microscope; it is most educational… not to mention profitable.”

For some reason _that_ mental image repulsed Mr Spice very much. He didn’t have a very high opinion of others of his own social class either, but the idea of exploiting their weaknesses to earn a leisure living that way, went against his old-fashioned moral sense.

And yet that was exactly what anyone would need Langdale Pike for, wasn’t it? His _connections_.

“But,” continued this questionable gentleman as if he’d read Mr Spice’s mind, “You aren’t here to discuss my living conditions with me, are you?”

“Not really,” admitted Mr Spice. “The truth is, I need your help.”

“I assumed that much,” said Mr Pike with a faint, unpleasant smile. “People seldom seek my company otherwise. So, what can I do for you?”

“It is about my daughter,” replied Mr Spice a little reluctantly.

He disliked the idea of discussing Alice with this man; as if it would tarnish her memory somehow. But he had no other choice.

“I suppose you know what happened to her,” he continued. “Or, at least, as much as there _is_ to know.”

Mr Pike nodded genially. “That she ran off with old Edmonds’s gardener all those years ago? Of course, I know. I’m afraid It was on everyone’s lips back in… when exactly did it happen? 1870? 1873?”

“1875,” corrected Mr Spice grimly, although he did have the nagging feeling that the other man was well aware of the correct year and just playing games with him.

The thought of everyone at _Brooks’s_ discussing his daughter’s folly wasn’t a pleasant one but he could hardly have expected anything else. That was what people generally _did_ , wasn’t it? Especially if Langdale Pike was involved.

“Oh, of course,” said the gentleman in question, showing the first vague signs of coming alive. “But it didn’t last long, did it? Such a fine, well-bred lady like your little Alice and that primitive fellow… no, that would never do! She returned home after how long? A year? A year and a half?”

“Almost two years, actually,” confessed Mr Spice reluctantly.

“Sensible girl,” said Mr Pike, “Although she lasted longer than I’d have given her credit for. But how did you get that most unsuitable husband of hers keep off her back? Paid him off? Threatened to have him beaten up?”

“Both,” answered Mr Spice coldly. “Right after punching him in the nose to show him I wasn’t joking.”

“That must have worked nicely,” said Mr Pike with a thin, shark-like grin. “At least for the time being. But what do you want _my_ help for? Has he shown up again? Has he been bothering your daughter?”

“On the contrary,” said Mr Spice. “He’s gone missing; and so has my daughter.”

“Oh, dear, that’s really inconvenient,” Mr Pike’s eyes narrowed in interest. “When did this happen?”

“Ten years ago,” said Mr Spice. “I have followed her trail as far as to Birmingham, but it ends there. And since then… nothing. Nothing at all.”

“That is very inconvenient indeed,” repeated Mr Pike. “But I still fail to understand what you could possibly want from me. None of this has ever reached London in all these years. I say people probably still believe that you’ve got your daughter back and that was it; that she still lives in Hawkhurst, closely guarded by you so that she would never do such foolish things again. I am not some kind of private detective who looks after missing persons, you know.”

“No, but you’re said to know one,” replied Mr Spice. “The best one in London, as a matter of fact.”

“Oh, I see,” Mr Pike’s eyes lit up in understanding. “You want to set Sherlock Holmes on the trail.”

“Indeed. I’m told that you know the man well.”

“Not _that_ well,” Mr Pike made that dismissive gesture with his cigar-holding hand again. “We’ve got what you’d call a passing acquaintance. We exchange information, occasionally, but that is all. He is a most peculiar fellow.”

“I do not really care how peculiar he is – _if_ he is any good,” said Mr Spice gruffly.

Mr Pike produced a high-pitched giggle in response.

“Any good?” he repeated, still giggling. “My dear Spice, Holmes is the most brilliant mind in the entire country. If you want him to find your daughter, he most assuredly will.”

“I hope your trust in his abilities is well-founded,” said Mr Spice.

Mr Pike gave him that thin, unpleasant smile of his. “I assure you it is. But I must warn you: Sherlock Holmes is not a dog you can whistle back, should you not like what he might find out. Once he accepts a case, he’ll follow the trail until he’s solved it.”

Mr Spice shrugged. “As long as he handles the results discretely, I have no problem with that. I want to know the truth; the whole truth.”

Mr Langdale Pike nodded in understanding.

“I see,” he said in his usual grave manner. “Well, in that case, the address is 221B Baker Street. You would better call in advance, though. Holmes is a peculiar man of peculiar habits. But if he expects you, there is a good chance that he would actually _be_ at home when you visit.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Mrs Hudson, the landlady of the famous detective Sherlock Holmes, was a long-suffering woman. Not only was her first-floor flat invaded at all hours by unknown people of peculiar and often undesirable character, but her remarkable lodger showed an eccentricity and irregularity in his life which, to tell the truth, often sorely tried her patience. 

The incredible untidiness of Mr Holmes, his odd habit of playing his violin in the middle of the night (or at the ungodly hours of daybreak), his occasional revolver practice within doors, which left permanent marks on the drawing room wall, his weird and often malodorous scientific experiments, the atmosphere of violence and danger which hung around him more often than not, due to his chosen profession, made him the worst tenant imaginable in London.

Despite all this, the landlady stood in the deepest awe of him and rarely dared to interfere with him, however outrageous his proceedings might seem. She was fond of him, too, for he had a remarkable gentleness and courtesy in his dealing with a few chosen women – and Mrs Hudson had always been one of those chosen few. As often as she would remind him that she was his landlady, not his housekeeper, she took care of his needs nonetheless, as if he had been her own son.

The arrangement worked to their mutual satisfaction.

Of course, the fact that Mr Holmes’s payments were princely did help things. As Dr Watson once mentioned in his diary(2), the house might have been purchased at the price which he paid for his rooms during the years of his work as a consulting detective, the best of which had been the ones he’d shared with Dr Watson. 

Dr Watson had been a soothing influence on the worst habits of Mr Holmes, and Mrs Hudson really regretted that he’d moved out of 221B a year or so ago.

Not that she’d deny him the right to a little happiness. If anyone, John Watson richly deserved to be happy, and his newly wed wife seemed to _make_ him happy all right. Mrs Watson (née Morstan), a kind and gentle little blonde woman, was the very thing Dr Watson had needed in his life. It was just so that he could not stay in 221B after having married, and that meant that Mrs Hudson, once again, was left alone with Sherlock Holmes and his trying habits.

One could not blame Mrs Hudson for the fact that she missed Dr Watson’s tempering presence in her famous tenant’s life.

Therefore she was understandably relieved that the Watsons were visiting on this particular day, when a new client seeking Mr Holmes’s help was expected. And a fine gentleman he was, a wealthy one from the country, by his clothes, with a wide, somewhat flat face and thinning, slicked-back grey hair. His small eyes were cold; clearly, he was used to getting what he wanted, and Mrs Hudson wouldn’t even dream of denying him entry – even if he hadn’t called in advance.

With obvious anxiety and in a great hurry, she led the gentleman, whose name was apparently Mr Spice, up to the first floor and knocked on said door, calling,

“Mr Holmes, your client has arrived!”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” a deep baritone voice with an accent that spoke of a past education in an exquisite boarding school, answered from within. “Let him in.”

Mrs Hudson shot the gentleman an apologetic look.

“He’s a bit odd, Mr Holmes is. Not like ordinary people; a great man, the very best… but his manners sometimes…”

“Do not concern yourself on my behalf, good woman,” Mr Spice interrupted her nervous chatter. “I have already been warned that he can be rude. That does not bother me the least. I am a man of direct speech myself; I’m sure we’ll understand each other well enough.”

“Well, if you think so, sir,” murmured the elderly woman and opened the door for him.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The first thing Mr Spice noticed upon the entering of Sherlock Holmes’s sitting room was the marked untidiness of said room; yet it was an untidiness that – at second sight – had a certain structure to it. As he looked around him, he noticed the scientific charts upon the walls, an acid-charred bench of chemicals – clearly the place where the detective performed his experiments – the violin case leaning in the corner and a coal scuttle, which contained several old pipes and tobacco, yet no coal at all.

Finally, his eyes came around to the mantelpiece, where several unopened envelopes were fixed to the wood with a knife. Next to them rested a human skull, with a single, long-stemmed red rose in one of its empty eye-sockets.

“Poor Yorick, I presume,” he commented sarcastically.

“Not really,” replied a tall, thin man with a pale, oddly angular face and clad in a dressing gown, rising from one of the armchairs. Mr Spice recognised the baritone voice from before.

The man had an unruly mop of dark, curly hair and the most remarkable eyes, the colour of which changed from grey to blue to green, depending on the angle of which the light fell upon them, but always with a strange silver gleam. He gave Mr Spice a hideously false smile before explaining things any further.

“He was a friend of mine; and I don’t make friends with fools,” he said. “Albeit I do work for them, occasionally, if the cases they present are worth my attention.”

Yes, the rumours definitely hadn’t been exaggerated. Sherlock Holmes might be a great man, but he was doubtlessly a rude and arrogant one.

“Holmes!” said the other man in the room warningly.

This one was a head shorter, with a round, friendly face, greying blond hair and seemingly guileless blue eyes. His clothing, as well as his accent spoke of middle class origins – and not necessarily the upper echelon of that, either. But there was a military rigidity in his stance, even sitting on the sofa, and a steely glint in those blue eyes that revealed that there was more to this man than what met the eye.

The woman sitting next to him was somewhat younger than him: a small, dainty blonde, dressed in a somewhat dull, greyish beige costume of a certain plainness and simplicity that spoke of limited financial means, untrimmed and unbraided, and she wore a small turban of the same dull colour, with a white feather to the side.

Her face was quite plain, too, neither prettily coquettish nor classically beautiful, but her expression was alert and mildly amused as she watched the antics of the famous detective, clearly familiar with them. Her blue eyes, seeming almost unnaturally large in her thin face, were gently tolerant and sympathetic. Her entire appearance spoke of someone who had learnt to make do what she had but was stubborn enough to get what she wanted.

She was also visibly pregnant, and the identical wedding bands she and the blond man next to her wore made it clear who the lucky father might be.

“Dr Watson is a dear old friend of mine,” explained the man in the dressing gown – clearly the great Sherlock Holmes himself – making the necessary introductions. “And his wife, Mary; a delightful lady. Absolutely delightful.”

Mr Spice couldn’t care less how delightful people the Watsons were. He came to speak with Holmes, not to make new friends.

“I hoped to speak with you in private, Mr Holmes,” he said testily. “The case I wanted to ‘bring to your attention’, as you’ve put it, is somewhat… delicate.”

“Aren’t they all?” returned Holmes dismissively. “That’s why people seek my services. You can speak in the presence of Dr Watson. Not only is he discretion in person, he’s also worked with me on countless cases in the past, and I’m fairly sure he’d love to do so again.”

“If Mary has no objections,” replied the doctor. “I have family obligations, you know.”

“Nonsense,” said Holmes with a snort. “You’ve taken a week off work.”

“To spend more time with my _wife_ ,” pointed out the doctor amiably.

Mr Spice was growing impatient during their banter. Before he could have demanded that they stopped and Holmes listened to his case, however, Mrs Watson rose from her husband’s side.

“It’s no problem, John,” she said with a smile full of gentle understanding. “I know you’ve missed playing detective; I’ll just go down to Mrs Hudson and take a look at those knitting patterns she was talking about. I’ll have to start making baby clothes any time now.”

With that, she left a room in a quiet rush of skirts.

“As I said: a delightful woman,” commented Holmes. “Well, Mr Spice; we’re among men of the world now. Tell me about your case. What do you want from me?”

“I want you to find out what happened to my daughter,” replied Mr Spice. “She went missing ten years ago; I’ve already given up her for dead. But now, for the first time, there might be a trace.”

“What kind of trace?” asked Holmes. “Be more specific, sir, if possible.”

Mr Spice handed him the large envelope stuffed with every possible thing he had hunted down about the disappearance of Alice during the last decade. Unfortunately, it wasn’t much.

“There is everything I know. Part of my daughter’s luggage showed up in the Lost Luggage Department at the _New Street Railway Station_ in Birmingham, when they cleared out their storage rooms. The police won’t take the case; they say it isn’t their responsibility, and besides, it’s been ten years, they’ve got more pressing issues. But I _need_ to know what happened to Alice. She is… _was_ my only child.”

“Do you have any reason to assume that she’s no longer alive?” asked Dr Watson gently.

As a soon-to-be father, he could probably emphasize with Mr Spice’s better than the saturnine detective. 

Mr Spice shrugged. “As I said: it’s been ten years, Doctor. Were she alive, she’d have made contact by now.”

“Sometimes young women of good families run away with men their parents would not approve of,” said Dr Watson delicately.

“We were already beyond that,” answered Mr Spice with a sour smile. “Alice had married a _very_ unsavoury fellow, realised her mistake in less than a year and returned home. Then, ten years ago, she decided to go to Birmingham for a few days… and never returned.”

“Why did she want to go to Birmingham in the first place?” inquired Holmes. “Young ladies usually prefer more pleasant places at the seaside; like Brighton.”

Mr Spice shrugged. “There was a performance of ‘Romeo and Juliet’ at the Theatre Royal she wanted to see. An actress she admired very much played the lead role, if memory serves me well. She was always fond of plays.”

“You don’t know which actress, though?”

Mr Spice shook his head. “No; I have no interest in the theatre. But I was glad that Alice found something to distract herself from that disastrous marriage of hers. She needed something to lighten her mood.”

“It could have been a mere ruse, of course,” pointed out Holmes. “An excuse to meet her husband without your knowledge; for, I presume, they were not yet divorced.”

“No,” admitted Mr Spice. “We didn’t want a scandal; not an even bigger one than the marriage itself, that is. People talked enough already as it was.”

“People do little else,” commented Holmes cynically. “Am I right to assume that you paid off the fellow handsomely, made some very believable threats ad intended to get your daughter a divorce quietly, at some latter date?”

Mr Spice nodded. “Exactly. Alice had had enough of married life for a while and no interest in anyone else, so there was no hurry. Nor did she have any reason to meet with her… with that Anderson character. He was a drinker; had even beaten her when drunk. No; she would not want to meet him.”

“I see,” said Holmes thoughtfully. “Hum; this seems to be a proper challenge. I shall take your case, Mr Spice. Of course, I’ll have to see the piece of luggage that was found; _then_ I’ll go to Birmingham to speak with a few people and to see whatever evidence there still might be.”

“I had the trunk brought to my house, to _Hawkhurst Old Place_ ,” said Mr Spice. “Naturally, you’re welcome to visit and examine it any time… or Alice’s chambers, if you think it would help.”

“It’s always helpful to have as many details as possible,” answered Holmes. “I’ll study the contents of your envelope first, to see what conclusions I can draw from them to begin with. I’ll send you a wire when I’m ready to continue my investigation in Hawkhurst.”

That was a clear dismissal, if Mr Spice ever heard one. And while he generally didn’t take kindly being dismissed, now – to his own surprise – he found himself agreeing with the suggestion, thanking Sherlock Holmes for taking the case and leaving Baker Street like an automaton.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As soon as he was out of the house, Holmes called Mrs Watson back to the living room.

“As a married woman yourself, what do you think about this case?” he asked. “Because I know you and Mrs Hudson were eavesdropping.”

Mary Watson gave him a wicked grin that stood in sharp contrast with her timid face.

“You’re wrong, Mr Holmes. Miss Hudson would never dare to listen in when you’re with a client. I, on the other hand, am a little less discreet; especially considering the strong chance that you’d drag John along with you for days again, and that during our holidays. You cannot blame me for taking advantage on the thin walls of 221B.”

She clearly wasn’t upset about their ruined holidays, though. She knew how much her husband enjoyed the excitement of a case; and she knew that Holmes was a lonely man, with no other friends to share his adventures with. Besides, John usually enjoyed returning to a regular life with her just as much.

“I might need him, yes,” admitted the great detective. “But I promise to give him back unharmed. So? Your opinion of this Miss Spice?”

“Mrs Anderson, actually,” she corrected. “As far as we know, she’s still married to that unsavoury chap. Or, at least, she was ten years ago, when she went to Birmingham to meet him secretly.”

“Does it mean that you, too, believe that she was going to meet her husband?” asked Holmes.

Mrs Watson nodded. “Of course. Why else would she come up with such a transparent excuse? No woman would travel from Hawkhurst to Birmingham to see a favourite _actress_ in a play.”

“It could have been an _actor_ , though,” suggested Dr Watson, but his wife shook her head determinedly.

“She had barely freed herself from _one_ unsuitable husband – with the considerable help of her father, mind you. She wouldn’t start something with another unsuitable man so soon. Not before she was legally divorced… and _that_ could have taken time. _Lots_ of time.”

“But why would she want to meet her husband?” Dr Watson was clearly a little bewildered. “She couldn’t have planned to return to him, could she?”

“Unlikely,” replied Mrs Watson. “I believe the exact opposite might have been true: she might have wanted to make Mr Anderson sign the petition for divorce immediately.”

“Why would she want to do that?” frowned Holmes. “She apparently didn’t want to remarry; nor was there another man in her life, according to her father.”

The look Mrs Watson gave London’s resident genius was almost one of pity.

“Dear Mr Holmes,” she said. “Husbands and fathers are _always_ the last ones to know such things.”

“Should I be worried?” inquired Dr Watson mildly, and his wife laughed.

“Not _yet_ ", she replied with a jaundiced grin.

“So you do think there was another man?” asked Holmes impatiently.

“And one of her own status or even higher, I suppose,” she replied. “Why else would she want to go through with the divorce as quickly and as quietly as possible? Only to be free for another man… one that probably wouldn’t have waited for her indefinitely.”

“But she still couldn’t have remarried for at least two whole years after the divorce,” pointed out Holmes.

She nodded. “True. But if she was… _involved_ with a… a _gentleman_ in any way, or hoped to do so in the not too distant future, being divorced would have spared her the social stigma of adultery – or the man that of dallying with an adulteress.”

“Which means we’re back to the problem of the mysterious other man,” said Dr Watson doubtfully.

His wife nodded again, her eyes coldly amused.

“Oh, there definitely was another man,” she said. “Presumably one of the landed gentry who’d be willing to marry a divorced woman eventually, assuming that said woman had enough money to provide him with the lifestyle expected from his stand. The London clubs are full of such young gentlemen: sons of minor nobility struggling to keep their ancestral homes, desperate for money and on the hunt for suitable brides with large enough allowances.”

“And she was young, presumably pretty, the daughter of a rich industrialist and the sole heiress of her father,” commented Holmes thoughtfully. “Yes, I can see what you mean, Mrs Watson.”

“Of course, it won’t be easy to find out who this man was,” she added. “As Mr Spice said, ten years are a long time. People forget things. Old, trusted servants who know more than their masters would assume, die. No, it won’t be easy.”

“But not impossible,” declared Holmes. “Indeed, this case has just begun to look very promising. Tell me, my dear, do you feel strong enough for a journey to Hawkhurst in your current condition?”

The Watsons gave him identical blank looks.

“ _Me_?” Mary finally asked. “But you are the detective; and isn’t it John who usually goes investigating with you?”

“That he is,” agreed Holmes. “But in this case I’ll need you, too. Old, trusted servants, if there still are any, are more likely to talk to a woman about their lost mistress; especially to such a kind and patient one as you. And the fact that you’re obviously pregnant would make them even more affectionate and careless.”

Mary Watson looked at her husband uncertainly. “What do you think, John? Can I risk such a long train ride?”

“If we go soon enough, I don’t see why not,” answered the doctor. “You have barely begun to show; and the fresh air on the countryside would do you a wealth of good. Even if you have to travel with Sherlock Holmes.”

The detective rolled his expressive eyes. “Very amusing, Doctor. Don’t think you’ll be exempt from our efforts, though. I’ll leave the London thread in your capable hands while your delightful wife and myself are haunting the countryside.”

“There’s a London thread?” asked the doctor sceptically, not particularly fond of the idea of allowing his pregnant wife to go off on a mad adventure with Holmes.

“There’s _always_ a London thread,” returned Holmes. “London is like a great cesspool into which all the loungers and idlers of the Empire are irresistibly drained. We’ll know for sure _what_ that thread is as soon as we’ve studied Mr Spice’s evidence. But first, I’ll have to send a wire to Birmingham.”

“To whom?” asked the doctor. “And what for?”

“To an old acquaintance of ours. Do you still remember Inspector Bradstreet?”

Dr Watson smiled fondly. “How could I forget the only police officer who’s ever matched you in your investigative skills? What about him?”

“Apparently, he’s been reassigned to the Birmingham force as a plain clothes detective,” explained Holmes. “He’s the leader of one of their police stations. I’m sure he’ll be able to help us with the details.”

”He most likely could, but the question is: would he?” asked Dr Watson.

Holmes shrugged. “Why not? He might be a rival, but he’s not an enemy.”

“As long as he sees it the same way,” muttered the doctor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) According to an entry in the Brooks's betting book from 1875 "Ld. Cholmondeley has given two guineas to Ld. Derby, to receive 500 Gs whenever his lordship fucks a woman in a balloon one thousand yards from the Earth." However there is no further indication that the bet was paid, or even how they would check it if it was claimed. The ‘thousand-yard-high-society’ is my invention.  
> (2) This passage is quoted – with small modifications – from the original ACD story “The Dying Detective”. The modifications were necessary because TV!Sherlock’s relationship to Mrs Hudson is, of course, a different one from that of his counterpart from ACD canon.


	5. A Visit to Hawkhurst Old Place

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> For visuals: Mr Spice is ‘played’ by Anthony Stewart Head, Smith, the parlour maid by Elisabeth Sladen, Betsy Anderson by Kathie McGrath and Rose, the maid by Billie Piper.   
> The description of _Hawkhurst Old Place_ is based on the house in “The Bleached Soldier”, but with changes, so that it would fit this story better.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 05 – A VISIT TO _HAWKHURST OLD PLACE_**

Two days later Sherlock Holmes and Mrs Mary Watson (née Morstan) found themselves on the train, heading for Hawkhurst village, which lay in Kent, to the south-east of Turnbridge Wells. The great detective wore his usual, dramatic overcoat and top hat with his dark trousers and there was an air of icy concentration about him, which was characteristic for him at the beginning of a new case.

Mrs Watson wore a long duster cloak to protect her best costume from the grime of the journey, with a bonnet of the same fabric, tied with a ribbon under her chin. She had a small suitcase with the bare necessities of a pregnant woman with her and she read a romantic novel during the entire journey. She was used to Holmes’s eccentricities and didn’t make the mistake of trying to start a conversation with him.

She knew her task was to get the servants to talk to her – nothing more, nothing less. A small task perhaps, but a significant one that she was allowed to play in the great detective’s game. She didn’t mind that her part was small. Her husband had sometimes told her exciting stories about how small facts had turned out to be of great significance; she hoped she would be able to contribute to the solving of the case.

No parent should remain clueless about the fate of their child.

Mr Holmes might have accepted the case because of the mystery. She, on the other hand, simply wanted to _help_. She could still remember how hard it had been not knowing what had happened to her father. What a relief it had been to finally learn the truth – even if it had been a sad truth. But after Mr Holmes had solved the mystery, she could finally grieve and put the whole affair behind her. She could make room for John in her life.

So yes, if Mr Spice needed closure, she’d do her best to help. Even if it meant sitting in a less than comfortable train compartment with a morose and silent Sherlock Holmes for hours.

She sighed and returned to her book. At this rate, she would finish it before they reached Hawkhurst.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
In the meantime, Dr Watson steadied himself to follow “the London thread”, as Holmes had called it – which meant finding and questioning Mr Anderson’s relatives. A not very joyful task, to which he wasn’t really looking forward to, but one that had to be done. And it was still better if he dealt with a bereft – and likely elderly mother – than leaving it to Holmes, whose compassion was limited at the best of times.

He took a hansom from Queen Anne Street to Tatchbrook Street, since his wound was bothering him again in the wet and cold London weather. When he got out of the cab in front of Number 64, he briefly wondered how his wife was doing on the long train ride, with Holmes in a state of pre-investigation catatonia and only a novel of questionable literary value for company. But again, she used to be a governess. She could deal with obnoxious children – even with the grown-up variety.

64 Tatchbrook Street was a very modest house: two storeys high and rather narrow, with a tiny little front yard – typical for the houses in this part of London. Dr Watson climbed the few steps to the front door with the (sadly, necessary) help of his walking stick and put the doorknocker – a plain brass ring – to good use.

Then he waited. Patiently.

Several minutes later, the door was finally flung open and a young girl of about sixteen or seventeen years – perhaps even younger – in the long, dark cotton dress and white waist apron of a house maid appeared. She had a somewhat scatter-brained air about her; the white cap sat askew on her head and several blond, almost yellow strands had come loose from the knot in which her hair was bound on the nape of her neck.

“Yes?” she asked somewhat breathlessly.

This wasn’t the proper way a maid should have welcomed a guest, even an unexpected one, but perhaps she was the only servant in this household, and as such. a little overworked. Or she was perhaps a bit dim-witted. Many girls serving in modest families were; or else said families couldn’t afford their services at all.

Dr Watson handed the maid one of his calling cards.

“My name is Dr John Watson,” he said. “I would like to speak with Mrs Elizabeth Anderson, if I may.”

The maid just looked at him like a frightened rabbit, clearly overwhelmed by the necessity of deciding whether she ought to announce a complete stranger to her mistress or not. Fortunately, another young woman in a dark blue dress with a slightly over-emphasized bustle came down into the hallway and took things into her much more capable hands.

“Who is it, Rose?” she asked.

The maid, whose name was apparently Rose, seemed disproportionally relieved by the new arrival’s timely intervention.

“I don’t know, Miss Betsy,” she answered defensively. “A gentleman who wants to see your mother.”

‘Miss Betsy’, presumably the daughter of the house, came closer, with an energetic rustling of her skirts. She was a pretty brunette with very dark hair and ice blue eyes, although with a somewhat hawkish face, and radiated all the easy self-confidence that the maid lacked.

“Give me the card,” she said.

The maid handed her the card and she studied it for a moment. Then she looked up with a hint of surprise.

“Tell me, Dr Watson,” she said, “do you happen to have a sister by the name of Harriet?”

Now it was the good doctor’s turn to be surprised.

“Indeed, I do,” he replied truthfully. “But how could you possibly know about that?”

‘Miss Betsy’ smiled.

“I was the nurse who accompanied her in that Swiss sanatorium, _Hôtel du Lac_ , some ten years ago,” she explained. “I am Elizabeth Anderson; although Miss Harriet used to call me Lizbeth. We never met, you and me. But Miss Harriet told me a great deal about you. She was very proud of her doctor brother, who had gone to war… although she mentioned that the two of you didn’t go on very well.”

“Unfortunately, that is true,” admitted Dr Watson, a bit shame-facedly. Are the two of you still in contact?”

‘Miss Betsy’ shook her head ruefully. “No; ever since she married, we’ve drifted apart. I hoped, though, that she would be happy.”

“So did we,” replied Dr Watson somewhat wearily. “Carl Moore is a decent chap and loves her with all his heart. Unfortunately, you need two people for a successful marriage.”

‘Miss Betsy’ nodded in understanding. Harriet Watson’s – now Mrs Monroe’s – _problem_ was something many knew about but rarely spoke of, out of compassion for the rest of the family.

“But why do you want to speak with my mother?” she then asked. “I didn’t know that you knew each other.”

“We don’t,” confessed the doctor. “In fact, I act on behalf of my friend, Mr Sherlock Holmes. It is about her son… well, your brother, I presume.”

Her face clouded immediately.

“Alfred went missing ten years ago,” she said. “And since then, there was no trace of him, until recently.”

“When his luggage was unexpectedly found,” finished for her Dr Watson.

“Indeed,” she replied. “Mother got a message from the Birmingham police. We haven’t found the means to go and fetch it yet, though. Mother is in poor health, and I cannot leave her alone for long. Besides, getting the suitcase won’t bring Alfred back.”

“Perhaps,” allowed the doctor. "But now there might be a chance to find out what happened to him.”

She looked at him askance for a moment; then she nodded briskly.

“Very well. I’ll allow you to speak with Mother. Tyler,” she nodded in the direction of the wide-eyed maid, “will announce you. And then I’ll be looking forward what news you might be bringing us.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
 _Hawkhurst Old Place_ was not easy to reach – it lay five miles from the railway station, a good stretch outside the village of The Moor, to which is officially belonged, beyond even the beautiful old church of St Laurence, which had stood at the south end of the village since 1100, if not earlier. Fortunately, they found a trap at the station, and so they did not have to walk the long way in the midday sun, carrying their suitcases; something especially Mrs Watson knew to value in her current condition. Even in the trap, she found the journey on the less than well-smoothed road most uncomfortable.

When they finally reached their destination, the sight was not what she’d have expected. Instead of one of the cottages that had become so well-liked lately by retired officers or wealthy industrials – wattle beam buildings with high chimneys and the servants’ rooms under the roof with their triangular windows – they found a great old house, presumably what had once been a fortified manor, sprawling in the middle of a considerable park. It bore the traces of all sorts of ages and styles, beginning with a half-timbered Elizabethan foundation and ending with a Victorian portico.

There were several small outhouses and, at the far end of the garden, there was a detached building of a somewhat larger size – large enough for a gardener’s or a groundskeeper’s residence. Its windows were shuttered, though, so it might no longer be occupied.

“The Elsworths used to be a wealthy family of local importance; and a very old one,” said Holmes, seeing his companion’s surprise. “Even without an actual title, they could – in fact, they still can – afford to live the life of the country gentry.”

“Apparently,” said Mrs Watson wearily.

Right now, she couldn’t care less about the wealthy family’s lifestyle. All she wanted was a comfortable armchair… and perhaps a cup of tea. The long journey had taken its toll on her.

Holmes ran up the stairs leading to the front door, thoughtlessly leaving her behind, and knocked on it energetically. Mary Watson followed at a much more moderate pace, dragging her small suitcase with her. Naturally, the great detective hadn’t thought of taking it off her – not that she’d counted on it. She knew him all too well for that.

The door opened almost immediately. The butler, who’d opened it, was almost as old as the house, it seemed: a little, wrinkled old fellow in the traditional costume of black coat and pepper-and-salt trousers. His eyes and his mind were still sharp, though; he took a look around the lanky detective, spotted the small woman still struggling up the stairs with her suitcase, and called into the house at once.

“Mrs Smith! Some help if you please!”

An elderly parlour maid hurried forth from inside the house to take the suitcase and guide Mary into the hall.

“Mr Spice is expecting you,” said the butler to Holmes. “Mrs Smith will show the lady to the guest room. You, sir, can come with me right away.”

The elderly maid – she had to be at least sixty and looked very respectable in her long, plain dark cotton dress and the immaculate white cap that covered most of her neatly ordered grey hair – led Mary Watson to a very nice little salon. It must have belonged to the mistress of the house once. Now, though spotless and well-kept, seemed oddly empty and unused.

Mrs Smith soon had Mary seated on a faded little couch, brought her a footstool and generally bustled about her like a mother hen with a single chick.

“Here you are, dear; put your feet up; you have been sorely tried this day. It does not behove a woman in your condition to make such a long train journey; and with a gentleman who is not even your husband, at that!”

“My husband is a doctor and he felt that I would not put myself at risk by accompanying Mr Holmes,” said Mary defensively. “Besides, he is practically family.”

Mrs Smith shook her head in mute disapproval but did not press the issue any longer. Instead, she busied herself with brewing “a nice cup of tea” that would make everything better, even though Mary assured her that she did not need to bother.

“Nonsense!” she said sternly. “You need to strengthen yourself after that _horrible_ train ride. And it is no bother at all; it does me good to see you, God bless your sweet, calm face. You remind me so much of little Miss Alice, it feels almost like old times!”

Mary accepted the tea – which was excellent – and the scones that were even better, and had to admit that the refreshments did her a wealth of good. She also accepted the offer to use “Miss Alice’s washroom” to freshen up a little, and after that she felt up to the challenge to do her own discreet and careful investigations.

“You were Miss Alice’s nurse, then?” she asked.

“And her governess,” explained Mrs Smith with a fond smile. “Her mother died when she was very little, you see; I practically raised her. Oh, but she was such a sweet, lovely girl! We never understood how she could fall for that horrible, _horrible_ man!”

 _Horrible_ was clearly one of Mrs Smith’s favourite words; she used it in abundance at every possible occasion.

“How did she meet him at all?” asked Mary with honest curiosity. It seemed unlikely that a spoiled daughter of a wealthy industrialist – and one born into country gentry at that – would move in the same circles as a simple gardener.

Mrs Smith sniffed disdainfully. “Oh, that was all that Betsy’s fault! Had Mr Spice not employed her so that Miss Alice would have someone of her own age around her, she could never have introduced her that _horrible_ brother of hers. An uncouth chap he was, nothing else! What Miss Alice saw in him I will never understand!”

Mary thought she did. Alfred Anderson had represented something forbidden, something depraved in the eyes of the spoiled Alice Spice, through the mere fact that he was unlearned and had to work hard for a living. At the same time, she had probably thought him safe as he was the brother of her trusted maid.

“I am surprised that Mr Spice gave his consent to such an undesirable marriage,” she said.

“Oh, but he did not!” replied Mrs Smith. “But Miss Alice was of age and had her own money, which she inherited from her mother on her eighteenth birthday, and she simply eloped with the man. Oh, but it was such a _horrible_ scandal, such shame on the entire family. Of course, Mr Spice released that _horrible_ Betsy at once, but the damage was already done by then.”

 _That_ did not surprise Mary at all. From her own time as a governess she knew all too well that it was much easier to blame the servants for anything that might go wrong than the spoiled daughter of the house. She had experienced the same injustice at times.

“Do you think it is possible that Miss Alice travelled to Birmingham to see her husband again?” she then asked.

Mrs Smith nodded empathically. “I am quite certain about that, although she did not say a word to me, of course. But I believe she wanted a divorce.”

“She would have risked another scandal, so soon?” asked Mary sceptically. “She could have waited a couple of years, until everyone forgot about her scandalous marriage, and then get the divorce quietly and unnoticed.”

Mrs Smith, loyal soul as she clearly was, pressed her lips together in defiance… which told Mary exactly what she needed to know.

“She had a new suitor, didn’t she?”

“She never _said_ anything,” confessed Mrs Smith, obviously mourning the trust that already had been lost between her and her charge at that time. “But the signs were there.”

“And you have no idea who it could have been?” insisted Mary.

The older woman shook her head. “No, All I know is that she had been in France during the previous summer and came back… changed.”

“Changed?” Mary echoed in surprise. “In what way?”

“She was _happy_ again,” Mrs Smith became positively tearful with the memory. “Full of plans for the future. She started to go out again, to the theatre and to social gatherings, no longer caring what the London society thought of her,” she pulled out a handkerchief and dabbed at her eyes. “That she had to lose all that again… it is _horrible_!”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Holmes, in the meantime, had questioned Mr Spice thoroughly and was now examining what once used to be Alice’s room. It was still in the same state the young woman had left it ten years previously. As if time had stopped there entirely.

“Mrs Smith cleans it regularly, but other than that we had not the heart to change anything,” explained Mr Spice in a tight voice.

Under different circumstances, Holmes would have answered with a snort and a derisive _Sentiment!_. In this particular case, though, the almost museum-like preservation of the missing daughter’s environment proved helpful. 

He went through the contents of Alice’s travelling trunk casually. The Birmingham police had already done so, he explained, and most likely destroyed any useful evidence that might have been there. The only piece he paid any particular attention to was the bookmark in that vapid romance novel of hers; the one with the short message: _5 pm, Boat Train, Restaurant Car_. 

He whipped out his magnifying glass to examine the postmark thoroughly, and he analysed the handwriting as much as it was possible for such a short text.

“Well,” he then said. “The card was clearly posted in Paris, at 25th September, and while it is addressed to your daughter, it is marked as _poste restante_ – as something to be fetched at the post office personally. She very obviously didn’t want _you_ to see it, which is why she carried it with her all the time, knowing that a man of your refined tastes would never open a romance novel out of mere curiosity.”

Mr Spice shook his head in bewilderment. “But why would she want to hide this from me?”

“Because she knew you would not approve of the person who sent it; _or_ of the fact that she intended to meet him,” answered Holmes bluntly.

“ _Him_?” echoed Mr Spice in shock.

Holmes nodded. “Yes, obviously, the person who wrote the message _was_ a man. The handwriting is clearly masculine.”

“She couldn’t have planned to meet that useless plebeian of her ex-husband!” exclaimed Mr Spice.

“I don’t think so,” Holmes handed him the postcard. “I was told that Mr Anderson was an uneducated person who earned his living by manual labour. The hand that wrote this message is elegant and well-practiced; it has never done any hard work. The swirl of the letters speaks of confidence; this is the handwriting of somebody who is successful, most likely wealthy, and very certain of his status – and that your daughter would follow his summons.”

“Are you assuming that my daughter had a secret affair with somebody?” demanded Mr Spice with an edge of menace in his voice.

Holmes stared at him in cold indifference.

“I am not _assuming_ anything,” he said coolly. “I deal with _facts_. Fact is that your daughter got this postcard before she would leave for Birmingham. Fact is, she considered it important enough to carry it with her in her novel. Fact is, she would have enough time to make a detour to Dover, meet this person on the Boat Train and still arrive in Birmingham at 6th September.”

He looked at his client expectantly but Mr Spice was too shaken to say anything just yet.

“Obviously, you had not known about this new… _association_ of your daughter,” Holmes finally said. “Who _could_ have known about it?”

Mr Spice shrugged helplessly. “If anyone, perhaps Mrs Smith. Alice used to trust her very much in her younger years.”

But as Holmes learned it from Mary Watson later, Mrs Smith did not know anything. Her suspicion that Alice might have met somebody in Paris a year before she had gone missing was an eye-opener but no evidence. Not without any solid proof.

“Could it have been another unsavoury character?” Mary thought out loud. “One of those French artists, always full of cocaine?”

Holmes gave her an annoyed look. The topic _cocaine_ had been a sensitive one between him and the Watsons from the day since he had met the good doctor for the first time.

“What do _you_ think?” he turned the question around.

“It _is_ possible, of course,” said Mary slowly. “But Mrs Smith seems quite certain that Alice wanted a divorce as soon as possible. A bohemian artist would not care whether his… _affair_ was married or not. Plus, a secret affair would have been much easier on Alice than the scandal of a divorce.”

“Precisely,” Holmes looked at her with the pride of a dog owner whose pet had just performed a clever trick. “It _had_ to be a man of a certain standing – a wealthy and well-respected one, I’d say – who could not afford a scandal with a married woman. The handwriting fits this theory.”

“What are we going to do next, then?” asked Mary.

Holmes shrugged. “We are going back to London, of course. There is nothing else we can learn here; let’s see what your husband has found out from the Andersons. We shall compare our data – and then we shall go to the scene of the supposed crime in Birmingham.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Dr Watson had indeed found out a great deal from the Andersons, as they learned upon their return to London. Unfortunately, very little of it proved useful for their investigation.

“It seems our Mr Anderson wasn’t quite the uncouth plebeian Mr Spice and his people would like us to believe,” said the good doctor, enjoying his cup of tea (courtesy of Mrs Hudson) in the familiar chaos of 211B Baker Street.

His dainty little wife had begged off, claiming to be fatigued after the long train ride, which was more than understandable in her condition, and took a hansom to take her directly home from the railway station. Besides, she had already told Holmes everything she had learned from Mrs Smith.

“Oh?” said the great detective with a visible lack of interest.

However, Dr Watson knew him too well to take offence.

“Yes indeed,” he said. “He was not educated, of course – how could he, the son of a simple clerk, whose father died when he was but a young chap – but he chose to educate himself. He was particularly fond of the books of Mr Dickens and had a strong interest in new inventions. He also strived to keep himself in a good shape and did his exercises diligently to keep up his strength.”

Holmes rolled those extraordinary eyes of his. He was not a beautiful man, not even conventionally handsome, but those silvery eyes that seemed to change colour depending on the angle in which the light fell upon them, combined with the high, sharply cut cheekbones, made his appearance quite unique.

“My dear Watson,” he said in a long-suffering tone he usually employed when talking to the police. “Why do you insist on quoting mundane details from Inspector Bradstreet’s report? Mr Anderson’s interests are clearly represented by the books and the dumb bells found in his suitcase; but they are of no significance for our case, as he clearly went missing while trying to meet his wife.”

“And how do you know what was in Bradstreet’s report?” asked the doctor.

Holmes gave him a haughty look and it was now his turn to roll his eyes. “Forget I even asked. But do tell me what makes you so certain that he was trying to meet his wife when he went missing?”

“Honestly, Watson, after all these years one would think you has observed my methods thoroughly enough to do your own deductions,” Holmes, who had been sitting folded into his armchair, his bony knees pulled up to his chin, now took up a more comfortable position and began to count on his fingers. 

“One: he was supposed to arrive in Birmingham on the same day as his wife. Two: he was supposed to start working as the night porter in _The Grand Hotel_ – in the same hotel where his wife had reserved a room. Three: they both had purchased tickets for the performance of _Romeo and Juliet_ at 9th September 1879, albeit theirs seats weren’t even close to each other. Four: he carried an – admittedly fairly cheap – brooch on his person in a white cardboard box, with the message ‘ _To my beloved Alice, Alfred_ ’. So clearly, not only was he preparing to meet her, he also hoped for a reconciliation.”

Dr Watson shook his head in amazement. “I would never have come to that conclusion!”

“Well, yes,” said Holmes languidly and stretched out his long legs before him, crossing them at the ankles, “as I always remind you: you see but you don’t observe!”

“Well, thank you,” replied the doctor drily. “So, now that we have gathered all this knowledge, none of which leads us anywhere, what are we going to do next?”

“I thought that should be obvious,” said Holmes. “We shall go to Birmingham and speak with the people who saw the two last, of course.”

He paused, stole a look at his friend and added casually. “We should take your wife with us. She proved very useful at talking to Mr Spice’s housekeeper. I imagine she would be a great help at getting information from the hotel personnel, too.”

“Forget it,” said Dr Watson emphatically. “Mary is _pregnant_ , Holmes! Do you understand? _Pregnant_. She is not supposed to over-extend herself. You’ve just dragged her to Hawkhurst with you, which was bad enough but still doable. But you are _not_ taking her with us to Birmingham.”

“You are speaking about her pregnancy as if it were some kind of disease,” returned Holmes sulkily. “You of all people should know that it is the most natural condition for the female of any species.”

Dr Watson counted to ten in his head. In four different languages, including the dialect spoken in the area of Kandahar, Afghanistan. _That_ proved difficult enough to calm him down a little.

“Firstly,” he began with forced patience, “Mary is not _the female_. She is my _wife_ and will soon be the mother of my child. Secondly, I _know_ that pregnancy isn’t a disease. But it does put a great strain on a woman’s system and Mary is fragile enough as it is. So, no. You shan’t get to drag her to Birmingham and that’s final!”

Holmes gave him a jaundiced look. “Don’t you think you should ask _her_ before making any decision on her behalf?”

 _That_ question took the wind out of the good doctor’s sails quite efficiently. His little missus was not only fiercely independent, she was also an adventurous soul. She would never forgive him if he simply made her stay behind, without even asking.

“All right,” he gave in reluctantly, knowing all too well that he’d lost. “I shall ask her. But we are _not_ leaving London right away. She needs her rest; at least for a few days.”

“Why, certainly,” agreed Holmes with a level of smugness that made the doctor wonder if his friend had already discussed this with his wife behind his back. “Mr Spice has waited ten years already; he can wait another day or two.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“ _The Grand Hotel_?” asked Mary Watson a week later, opening the letter that acknowledged their reservation. “John, can we truly afford _The Grand Hotel_?”

“Probably not,” her husband admitted. “But Mr Spice can. He made the arrangements for all three of us, as part of Holmes’s payment. I think he wanted us to be able to talk to the hotel personnel, without raising any suspicions. So, don’t you worry your pretty little head off, Mrs Watson. This time we shall lodge like the rich, and it won’t even cost us one penny.”

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” she said doubtfully. “I’ll look like a parlourmaid among those fine ladies. I do not have the means to dress up like them; they will shun me.”

“Not if you are seen in the company of Mrs Holroyd,” her husband smiled.

She shook her head in confusion. “I do not know a Mrs Holroyd!”

“Neither do I; at least not _this one_ ,” John confessed. “But I do know a _Colonel_ Holroyd, whose life I saved in Afghanistan and who’s now Chief Constable of Birmingham. His first wife, Estelle, died a few years ago – which is a shame; I knew _her_ , she was an angel – and he remarried upon taking this position. They will welcome us with open arms, I’m sure about that.”

Mary did not doubt that _Colonel_ Holroyd would be happy to see _John_. Retired officers were bound to each other by a very special bond of comradeship, regardless of their social status. She was just not equally certain that _Mrs_ Holroyd would be happy to socialize with _her_. Her father might have been an officer, too, but he had been long dead, and even as a doctor’s wife, her social status was considerably lower than that of the Holroyds.

But John was so eager to go, not only to be reunited with an old comrade but also to assist Homes solving the mystery. Besides, this would be the last chance for her to do something interesting before nursery obligations would swallow her entirely.


	6. Clues Found in The Grand Hotel

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For visuals: Hotelkeeper Mr Field is played by Mark Gatiss. He was a real person and indeed managed _The Grand Hotel_ of Birmingham at the time. Miss Fanny Robinson is played by Vinette Robinson (Sally Donovan), Mr Wiggins, the day porter by Rupert Young and Billy, the page by Colin Morgan.  
>  _St Peter’s Church_ is what would become _St. Peter’s Cathedral_ in 1905.  
>  I took some poetic licence by assuming that some (more spectacular) details of _The Grand Hotel_ were added a decade or so earlier than in reality. Just to make it a really grand place (no pun intended).

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 06 – CLUES FOUND IN THE GRAND HOTEL**

_The Grand Hotel_ in Birmingham truly deserved its name, Mrs Watson found a week later, as she carefully descended from the hansom that had brought them from _New Street Station_ to the impressive building, using her husband’s eagerly offered arm for leverage. 

To begin with, she had not expected it to be so big. It occupied the greater part of a block bounded by Colmore Row, Church Street, Barwick Street and Livery Street, and overlooked _St Philip’s Church_ and churchyard. Mary Watson found the Baroque church with its Italian traces very pleasing and made a mental note to pay it a visit later. At the moment, she was busily impressed by the hotel itself.

It had five storeys , rising to considerable height above the street, with a hundred and sixty rooms, all furnished to meet the somewhat more expensive tastes of rich businessmen and country gentry. Other facilities included a restaurant, with an entrance facing Church Street, two coffee rooms and several stock rooms.

“The stock rooms are basically exhibition space, where businessmen can demonstrate their new products,” Holmes threw the words of explanation over his shoulder while bounding up the straight flight staircase that connected Colmore Row directly with the hotel reception. “ _The Grand Hotel_ aims to attract the majority of his clients from commercial visitors from out of town. Mr Spice saw to it that we’d get some of the better rooms, though.”

The Watsons followed him at a moderate pace, the doctor struggling with both their suitcases _and_ with his wife’s travelling trunk. As they planned to stay for a few days, they had quite a bit of luggage and Holmes, as was his wont, could not be bothered to help with carrying it. Fortunately, their arrival had already been noticed from within the building, and a young man in a bellboy’s livery came out briskly to help them.

“Dr Watson and Mrs Watson, I presume?” he asked with a definite Irish lilt in his voice. 

He did not seem any older than seventeen, was stick thin and quite pale, with a mop of black hair, very blue eyes and a slightly mischievous smile. His ears stuck out in an unusual angle, elf-like. Mary Watson liked him at once.

“We are indeed,” said Dr Watson. “Can you show us to our rooms? My wife is quite fatigued after the long train ride.”

The bellboy looked at them in mortification. “Oh, no, sir, madam, Mr Fields will do so himself in a moment. I’ll take your luggage in the meantime. Should you need anything, just call Billy.”

“That would be you, then,” deduced Dr Watson with an amused smile.

The boy nodded enthusiastically. “That would indeed be me, sir, Billy Fairchild. I started working here over ten years ago, know every nook and canny and can get you anything you need, though I say so myself.”

The Watsons exchanged interested looks. Ten years… that would mean the boy was working here when Alice Spice went missing. He had to be older than he looked, then – and definitely an invaluable source of gossip and knowledge.

As promised by the bellboy, the hotelkeeper was already hurrying towards them in anxious expectation. A tall, whippet thin man in his late forties, Mr Field had a round face, a long, pointy nose and a shock of thick, bright ginger curls that surrounded his head like a halo, refusing to be brought in any kind of order. Much to the grief of its owner, most likely, as Mr Field seemed to be a man of conservative tastes who preferred to dress just a tad above his actual standing; an effort that got hopelessly ruined by his untameable red mane.

He also seemed to have a number of nervous habits, from wringing his long hands through random blinking to the uncontrollable twitching of the corner of his mouth. Whether those were caused by a guilty conscience, by the reputation of Holmes that had long grown beyond the confines of London, or by the fear of Mr Spice’s displeasure, was hard to tell.

He was followed by a tall, bitter-faced black woman of regal posture in the usual dark cotton dress, white waist apron and white cap of a maid – presumably the hotel’s housekeeper. In any case, she had a ring with several keys hanging from the waist of her white apron.

“Welcome to _The Grand Hotel_ , sirs, madam,” Mr Field all but sailed across the foyer in his eagerness to greet them. “It is a delight to have you in our modest establishment, a delight! As requested by Mr Spice, a double room has been reserved for Dr and Mrs Watson and a single room for Mr Holmes.” 

He turned to the Watsons. “Your room is _not_ overlooking the street and is situated in the quietest part of the hotel; we thought it best, due to Mrs Watson’s… er… delicate condition to make sure she is not disturbed by the noises coming from the street.”

Mary Watson rolled her eyes but her husband thanked the hotelkeeper for his thoughtfulness. Mr Field beamed at them before turning to Holmes.

“As for you, Mr Holmes, since it is known that you prefer to observe your surroundings at all times, we thought you would like a room overlooking the street. Therefore your room is on the opposite side of the corridor as Dr and Mrs Watson’s.”

Holmes put on a bored look like one who could not understand why somebody would bother him with such trivialities. Thus the long-suffering Dr Watson thanked the hotelkeeper for him, too.

“Why of course,” exclaimed Mr Field. “We take great pride in providing for the needs of our guests to their utmost satisfaction. Now, if there is nothing you need immediately, please follow Miss Robinson,” he waved in the vague direction of the black woman. “She is my housekeeper and she will show you to your rooms.”

“Actually, there's one thing,” Dr Watson pulled a small envelope from his inner pocket; the kind in which one would put one’s calling card. “Can you see to it that my card is sent to Colonel Holroyd? I would be very grateful.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr Field took the envelope delicately, his eyes large and round with surprise like saucers. “You know our Chief Constable, Dr Watson? How amazing!”

“Not really,” the doctor said drily. “We served together in the Afghan War; and I would very much like to see him again – if he is willing, that is.”

“Oh, I am quite certain that Colonel Holroyd will be happy to meet you,” assured him Mr Field. “He is known to be delighted to see his old comrades. I shall send your card over by Billy at once. Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to my duties; Miss Robinson is at your disposal.”

With that, he sailed away in the manner of an excited peacock and the guests followed the housekeeper to their rooms; Holmes impatiently, the Watsons awed by the surroundings, for _The Grand Hotel_ deserved its name by all accounts.

The staircase halls at ground and first floor levels each had two paired marble columns with granite bases. The first floor had pilaster responds, round arches and decorative plaster to the ceiling; there were floral motifs to the cast iron balustrade. The first floor mainly housed the hotel reception and function rooms – like the beautifully furnished Commercial Room and Arbitration Room, with their elaborate cornices, richly carved fireplaces, plastered ceilings and picture rails – and could be accessed by a straight flight staircase from Colmore Street.

The rooms of Holmes and the Watsons were on the second floor, and when they were shown into theirs, Mary Watson looked around with delight. It was not one room but an actual suite, consisting of a bedroom, dominated by a large double bed, and a small drawing-room.

The latter was furnished with overstuffed sofas that could have seated three persons each and had richly carved backs and armrests, and with little round coffee tables. Delicate china lamps – shaped like little statuettes – with silk shades stood on the mantelpiece. Their luggage stood already in the bedroom, waiting to be unpacked.

“It is beautiful,” declared Mary. “Whatever this investigation reveals, I'm glad that we have come. And I intend to enjoy our stay here .”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Who is this John Watson?” Mrs Emily Holroyd asked her husband.

She was sorting the post in the drawing-room of their house in Church Street and stared at the simple calling card unimpressed. Colonel Holroyd rose from his seat and looked at the card over her shoulder.

“I used to know an Army doctor by that name,” he replied. “We served together in Afghanistan; he saved my life when I was injured. I didn't know that he lived in Birmingham, too.”

“He does not; at least I don't think so,” said Mrs Holroyd. “The card was bought by a page of _The Grand Hotel_.”

“If it's the same John Watson I used to know, then I'm surprised that he can afford _The Grand Hotel_ ,” commented Colonel Holroyd with a frown. “He has been wounded and invalided home a few years ago, too; and a invalid pension would not be enough to live in such a grand style.”

“Hmmm,” said his wife thoughtfully. “Could it be the same Dr Watson who is said to assist Mr Holmes, the famous detective, with his cases? Perhaps one of their clients is paying the bill, then.”

Colonel Holroyd gave her a suspicious glare. “Do you happen to know who that client may be?”

“I cannot know for certain of course,” she answered. “But I did write Mr Spice about Alice’s things having been found; and _he_ is wealthy enough to afford the services of Mr Holmes.”

For a moment Colonel Holroyd was absolutely speechless. Used as he was to his wife’s independent actions – way too independent ones in his eyes – her elaborate schemes kept surprising him time and again.

“I thought I was clear enough about not wanting anything to do with that lost piece of luggage,” he finally said with barely controlled anger.

“You were,” she replied, completely unimpressed. “And I respected that. You didn't have anything to do with it; and neither did the police. I merely informed an old family friend that a possible link about his missing daughter’s whereabouts had appeared. He had the right to know that, in case he wanted to make… arrangements.”

“It appears to me that it's _you_ who likes to make arrangements, madam,” said Colonel Holroyd, his displeasure obvious. “You do have an inordinate fondness for meddling with other people’s affairs.”

Mrs Holroyd shrugged. “I am who I am, Jacob. If you wanted a meek little wife, you should have married some naïve young girl, not a mature woman with brains. Or did you expect me to become stupid as soon as you put the ring upon my finger?”

That rhetorical question put an end to their argument – an oft repeated one, which usually ended the same way. Colonel Holroyd suppressed an irritated sigh. Back when he had lost Estelle, he thought that marrying someone with a very different character would make it easier for him to get over his loss. Estelle had been quiet, gentle, romantic and soft-spoken; and she had admired him. He knew he could never find someone like her again; so he had gone for quite the opposite and hoped for the best. 

Unfortunately, it didn’t work out; not really. Emily might have given up her school work for marriage, but she was still so busy with her own life – not to mention that she didn’t want children – that their lives barely intersected. Bizarrely enough, Colonel Holroyd found that he had more in common with his manservant than with his second wife.

Of course, Jones had been Jacob’s batman during his years in the Afghan War, having been drafted into service at the impressionable age of sixteen. He had learned to read Jacob’s moods and needs like no wife of his ever could; not now that Estelle was gone. Which was why Jacob had insisted on bringing the young Welshman home with him after retiring from the Army, keeping him in his service.

Emily didn’t like Jones, of course. She hated the closeness between them; a closeness forged in the fire of battle, of which she could never be part. But Jacob had told her in no uncertain terms, right at the beginning, that Jones was part of the package and she could either accept that or seek out other suitors.

Besides, if she wanted to keep that juvenile thief as her parlour-maid, she had no right to object to Jones’ presence. At least Jones was honest to a fault… and unfailingly polite. Neither of which could have been said about Alice Guppy.

“Are you going to invite this Dr Watson over for tea?” the voice of his wife interrupted his thoughts. He nodded.

“Of course. I would never turn an old comrade down; and besides, I owe the man my life.”

“Of course,” echoed Emily with a tight smile; the former soldiers of various ranks that kept turning up at their house was getting on her nerves, but there was nothing she could do against it. “Shall I send an invitation to the hotel? Alice can do that with the rest of her chores.”

“That is not necessary,” answered Colonel Holroyd coolly. “My past is my own business. Jones will do it.”

“Naturally,” said Emily; then she added in a thoroughly nasty manner. “Sometimes I wish Jones were a woman. Then you could have married _him_ , and we would be both better off.”

“At least I can be certain the he will never do things behind my back,” Jacob Holroyd stepped away from the loveseat on which his wife was sitting. “If you’ll excuse me… I have things to do.”

He left the drawing-room without waiting for an answer.

Mrs Holroyd withstood the impulse to tear up Dr Watson’s calling card and throw it into the fireplace… barely. _That_ would have been very plebeian, and she never did anything plebeian. But she _was_ tempted. By God, was she tempted! True, their marriage had been based on mutual advantages rather than on any romantic feelings – but when had it gone so terribly wrong? They used to have an amiable relationship, if nothing else.

She sighed. Sooner or later she would have to do something about it. She could not allow their life to fall apart. She had built up a new life after giving up her school work; but that life required the presence of a husband. She would not be able to keep her social status without Jacob to provide her with the necessary background.

For the moment, though, she had more pressing issues to deal with. She reached for the bell to summon her maid and confidante.

“I want you to go to _The Grand Hotel_ , Alice,” she told her. “I want you to talk to the people there, from that Robinson woman to the lowliest bellhop. I want you to learn everything there is to know about a certain Dr John Watson who has recently checked in.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Holmes used the time the Watsons needed to get settled in their rooms for a first interview with Mr Field. The hotelkeeper was understandably surprised that somebody of Holmes’s standing would be interested in a man as insignificant as Alfred Anderson – and ten years after the man’s disappearance at that.

He didn’t appear to have fond memories of the man, either.

“He was a good gardener, according to his references, but an unpleasant chap,” he explained. “A _very_ unpleasant chap. Apparently, he thought himself better than the rest of the hotel employees, just because he used to work for Mr Edmunds. Wiggins, our day porter, always complained that Anderson put on airs as if he owned the place here. But the women tended to fall for it,” added Mr Field unhappily. “ _And_ for his fancy talking about books and new inventions.”

Holmes nodded. Alfred Anderson’s wide range of interests could be deduced by the things found in his suitcase… as well as his less than amenable habits, like the snuff taking and the habitual drinking. He had also clearly wanted to make a fetching figure, for which reason he trained regularly – no doubt in order to impress the fair gender with his looks as well as with his talk.

“Did he have a serious affair with any of the women also working here?” he asked.

Mr Field hesitated, obviously hesitant to say either yes or no right away.

“I do not know _how_ serious it was,” he answered slowly. “Nor do I have any proof that it actually happened, but the gossip mill used to work a great deal about him and Miss Robinson. That caused a lot of excitement among the other maids; more so as he was a married man still – at least on paper – and Miss Robinson being who she is. I was sorry for her to tell you the truth, Mr Holmes. She is a hard-working, honest and reliable person who never had it easy, due to… circumstances that aren’t her fault and that she cannot change.”

He was clearly meaning the fact that Miss Robinson was black and therefore had to fight against prejudice all her life.

“She is a lot less naïve than most women working in the hotel industry,” continued Mr Field. “But my guess is that even she fell into the trap of wanting the usual things women want: a family, a home, children… She was – still is – very lonely, you see. Perhaps she hoped that Anderson would get a divorce and marry her eventually.”

“Would he have?” asked Holmes.

Mr Field shook his head. “I don’t think so. You see, Mr Holmes, I did investigate a little on my own after Anderson went missing at the same time as one of our hotel guests – who turned out to be his alienated wife. She was a wealthy woman; a _very_ wealthy woman. _And_ she came here with express intention to meet him.”

“Why would he do that?”

“I have no idea. Perhaps she had come to her senses and wanted a divorce. Spoiled young ladies tend to fall for unsuitable men and often regret it afterwards.”

“Did they actually meet?”

“Not here in the hotel; at least I found no proof for that. But they were seen together near the _Theatre Royal_ ; in fact, that was the last time either of them was seen alive.”

“That matches what we have found so far,” murmured Holmes. “Both had theatre tickets for the same performance of _Romeo and Juliet_ in their luggage; albeit for very different seats.”

“Of course,” Mr Field nodded. “Miss Spice would only accept the best of anything; and Anderson could never afford a seat in the Dress Circle. He was just a poor sod who thought way too highly of himself.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“He was much more than just that,” protested Miss Robinson, affronted for the absent man’s sake.

She had offered to help Mrs Watson unpack her things, while _Doctor_ Watson had gone to find Holmes and learn from him what the detective had found out so far. It was obvious to Mary Watson that Miss Robinson must have had a more than just fleeting interest in the missing man.

“He was a decent man,” continued the housekeeper. “Not educated, of course, but he did read a great deal and understood things most of those haughty, rich people he worked for had no idea about. _And_ he was very handsome,” she added, her lovely face taking on a wistful expression. “Everything was the fault of that horrible woman he had married.” 

“You mean Miss Spice?” clarified Mary Watson.

Miss Robinson nodded. “She seduced him with her money and her fancy manners; then she got bored with him and left him, and had her father threaten him. She broke his heart, and yet he could not get away from her. He was deliriously happy when she contacted him and wanted to meet him.”

“Are you saying that it was Miss Spice who initiated their get-together?” asked Mary Watson in surprise. 

The things Holmes had deduced about Anderson, based on the contents of his suitcase, spoke of a man whose character and habits didn’t really match with Miss Robinson’s description. It would have been incomprehensible for Mary why someone like Alice Spice would fall for a man like Anderson in the first place… had her years as a governess not taught her that spoiled rich girls would do the stupidest things just to rebel against their parents.

“Of course,” said Miss Robinson bitterly. “She would never come at his request. She taught herself high above everyone, just ‘cause her father was rich. As if _she_ had earned all that money she kept flinging in the face of less fortunate people; while, in truth, she never worked a day in her entire life!”

“But what did she want from her husband?” wondered Mary.

“Why, a divorce, of course, so that she could marry that rich French suitor of hers,” said Miss Robinson.

Mary frowned. “She had a French suitor?”

Miss Robinson nodded several times for greater emphasis. “Oh, she did not stay in our hotel, of course; they did not want to cause a scandal while she was still married. But he did come in a hansom to take her to the _Theatre Royal_ , on the very evening she was seen last.”

“Did you see him?” asked Mary, excited about the new piece of information she had managed to unearth – and that without the assistance of either Holmes or her hovering husband.

“Not me,” admitted Miss Robinson, “but Billy Fairchild did. He heard them talk to each other in French, too, not that he could understand much, but it was clear they were more than just casual acquaintances. Poor Alfred was heartbroken when he learned about that,” she added sadly. “He had still hoped that she would take him back; even bought her a beautiful brooch as a reconciliation gift. It cost him his last penny, it did.”

“Did he also follow them to the theatre?”

“That he did,” sighed Miss Robinson. “I had a ticket for the same performance – a cheap one for the galley, of course, but it did get him into the theatre. I had saved for that ticket for weeks.”

“And you gave it to him nevertheless?”

“He _begged_ … and I thought if they spoke again, he might realise that there is no hope for him anymore…”

“… and he would finally see what he had in _you_ ,” Mary finished for her, the tragedy of this poor woman unfolding before her eyes in its entirety.

Miss Robinson shook her head dejectedly. “It was folly, of course; worse than folly. I was but a distraction for him. Why would he want to bind himself to somebody like _me_ , even if his rich wife had rejected him… again.”

“And yet you fell for him… hard,” murmured Mary.

Miss Robinson bowed her head. “I was an utter fool. No-one knew about our… dalliance. He wanted it so, and I was even touched at first. I thought he was protecting me; reputation is of great importance in a hotel like this. Had I been marked as a slut, I could have lost my position and what would then happen to me? My work is everything I have.”

“But he wasn’t truly protecting _you_ , was he?” asked Mary in gentle understanding.

“Of course not!” The first tears began to trickle down Miss Robinson’s face. “He just wanted to keep his way free back to that horrible wife of his.”

“And no-one ever noticed a thing?” wondered Mary. 

In her experience, that was highly unlikely if not impossible, especially in a hotel where many curious and gossipy women worked.

Miss Robinson shrugged. “There was precious little between us that any-one could have noticed; and we were careful. I believe Mr Field may have noticed _something_ – he is very observant, you see. But he is also a great benefactor of mine; the only one who has ever seen me as a _person_.”

“He gave you work; important work that means a certain status, too,” said Mary. “He must have trusted your ability to run things for him in the background. Few people would have done so, unfortunately; he must be a very open-minded man.”

“Oh, he most certainly is,” agreed Miss Robinson loyally.

“Perhaps you would do better to set your hopes on him,” suggested Mary.

“Oh, no, that would be most inappropriate!” protested Miss Robinson in shock. “And he does not look at me like _that_! I used to work for him in a small hotel as a chambermaid; he saw that I had a good head for numbers and for keeping track of different tasks at the same time, so he took me with him when _The Grand Hotel_ was entrusted into his care, but that is all. And I am more than content with the arrangement. This is better than anything I cold have hoped for.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Mary. “But you must be lonely. So very lonely. Believe me, I know what it is like. I, too, worked with spoiled children of wealthy families. I was a governess before I met John Watson, and utterly alone in the world. Of course, I had certain advantages compared with you, being the daughter of an officer only one of them, but… who knows, one day you may meet somebody, too. Somebody who can truly value you as you deserve.”

“That was what I thought I had found when I met Alfred,” answered Miss Robinson bitterly. “But he forgot about me in the moment he cajoled my theatre ticket out of me and ran off to meet that rich harpy.”

“You never heard of him again, then?”

“Not a word. At first I thought he might have persuaded her to change her mind – he could be _very_ persuasive when he put his mind to it, especially with women – and the two of them ran off together, after all. Mr Spice came here and made a terrible scene, which was how we learned that she was missing, too. ‘Til then we had thought she had simply got bored and left without giving notice. She was known to do such things, and her luggage was gone from the room; and so were Alfred’s things.”

“Was he not sought for by his family, too?” asked Mary.

“Miss Betsy, that' his sister, came down from London to ask questions,” explained Miss Robinson, “but no-one could tell her anything. So I thought they might have eloped together; or that the whole meeting and the fight was just some elaborate scam to fool their families. Alfred was good at such things. But when their luggage suddenly showed up, after all those years… something bad must have happened.”

“Not necessarily. They could have left it behind to confuse any-one who might search for them,” pointed out Mary reasonably.

But Miss Robinson shook her head. “She might have. She had enough money to buy herself new things. But Alfred would never have left behind the brooch he had bought for her. He was… sentimental, for a man.”

“How do you know the brooch-was among his things?” asked Mary.

Miss Robinson shrugged. “This was the most exciting found in the history of the Lost Luggage department. _Everyone_ learned to the last detail what was in her trunk – or in his suitcase – within the week. Miss Evans, the police clerk from Station House Three, was reached from tea party to tea party by people who would _never_ even _think_ of inviting her before… and, of course, the servants eavesdropped.”

She put the last item of Mary’s clothing into the cupboard and closed the door.

“We are done, Mrs Watson. My apologies for burdening you with the details; but even I know who Mr Holmes is, and that your husband sometimes assists him. It is not hard to guess _why_ they are here; and since you would learn about Alfred and me eventually, I thought it better to be honest about it,” she smiled bitterly. “Besides, it was easier to tell you than to speak to them.”

“I imagine it was,” answered Mary gently. “I am glad you did. Unburdening yourself must have been a true relief for you.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“If _that_ was indeed what she was doing,” commented Holmes when he joined the Watsons, after having finished his interview with Mr Fields. “She might have been trying to obscure her involvement in the disappearance of Miss Spice. Or that of Anderson. Or both.”

“You cannot be serious, Holmes!” protested Dr Watson who was never anything but courteous towards women, no matter their origins or social status. “Can you truly imagine that thin girl to summon up enough strength to murder a man like Anderson? A man who regularly exercised with dumb bells and was used to hard physical labour?”

“Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, my dear Watson,” replied Holmes airily. “You are terribly biased when it comes to the so-called weaker gender; you are an incorrigible romantic. The girl may look thin, but she certainly has a wiry strength. She has to, doing the work she does. Besides, she also could have poisoned them. Miss Spice stayed in the hotel and Anderson _worked_ here. She was already the housekeeper; she would have had ample opportunity.”

“Are you truly saying that Miss Robinson murdered them both?” Dr Watson still couldn’t believe it.

Holmes shook his head. “I am only saying that is _one_ possibility. There are several other ones. But I need to consult with Inspector Bradstreet before I can present my theories. I have already sent him a message but got no answer so far.”

“Well, this must be your lucky day, then,” Dr Watson handed him an envelope. “I just got this invitation from Colonel Holroyd. We are to visit his place tomorrow, for tea, all three of us. He also mentions that he has invited Inspector Bradstreet and his wife, too. Apparently, your presence did not go unnoticed.”

“Interesting,” said Holmes. “It has been my impression that Colonel Holroyd was not interested in our excellent little mystery.”

“And you were right; he was not,” replied Dr Watson. “But his _wife_ was, from the beginning, and so was originally Inspector Bradstreet. So the colonel either gave in to his wife’s nagging, or he realised that _you_ are here, which has piqued his interest, after all. And he is using _me_ to get his answers without losing face.”

“You don’t mind?” asked Holmes with a frown.

The doctor shook his head. “Not at all. It will be great seeing him again. Mary will have a lot in common with Mrs Holroyd, who used to have her own school, and you will get your chance to work with Bradstreet again. Everyone wins.”

“Let’s hope so,” murmured Mary, who did have her doubts that she would truly have so much in common with the rich and resolute Mrs Holroyd. But this meeting was obviously important for Holmes and her husband, so she was willing to give her best.


	7. Tea and Deductions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some lines are borrowed from the ACD novella “The Sign of Four” and from “The Adventure of Shoscombe Old Place”, respectively.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 07 – TEA AND DEDUCTIONS**

The home of Colonel and Mrs Holroyd was an imposing house in Church Street, bought with Emily’s money after their wedding. Before that, she had lived in a spacious suite within the school of her founding, much to her rich father’s chagrin who found such things unseemly for a young woman of good breeding.

Thus, when she had finally given up school work in favour of marriage, Mr Craney had been more than happy to provide them with a home suited for their status. Colonel Holroyd was not exactly penniless, he had managed well enough during his first marriage, but he could never have afforded a house like the one in which they now lived, on his own. 

It was a large, sprawling structure, built of red brick, very old at the centre and very new at the wings, with towering Tudor chimneys. It had two miniature front yards on either side of its front door that faced Church Street; two small grassy patches only, with no particular function other than to contrast the cylindrical, glassed winter gardens on either edge of the house front. The rooms of the family were situated deeper within the house and looked out on to the spacious back yard, which was walled to protect the inhabitants’ privacy from spying eyes.

”It must have been the residence of some upper class family, lying outside of the actual city before the building of the railway lines,” deduced Holmes, eyeing the somewhat pompous house with its small turrets in mild distaste. ”It was clearly constructed with a large family in mind.”

”That is odd,” commented Dr Watson. ”To my knowledge, Colonel Holroyd has no children. His first wife had two stillborn babies, which weakened her already fragile health very much; and so far his second marriage has been childless, too.”

”Which may have been the choice of _Mrs_ Holroyd,” pointed out Holmes. ”She is not the kind of woman who would give up successful work just to become a meek home-maker. As she is the one with the money, she must also have been the one insisting on acquiring this house, as it is clearly too large for only the two of them.”

”It is said, that Mrs Holroyd enjoys flaunting her wealth in the face of less fortunate people,” added Mary Watson. ”And she does have a great deal to flounce, according to Mr Spice’s parlour-maid.”

”Well, this house definitely counts as flaunting,” said Dr. Watson. ”Be careful with that step, my dear, lest you slip off the edge and take a fall. It could be disastrous in your condition.”

Mrs Watson rolled her eyes at the hovering of her concerned husband but she had to admit that the doctor was right. The steps of the house were worn into curves with age and long use; the ancient tiles which lined the porch were marked with the rebus of a cheese and a man after the original builder.

”This part of the house may go back to the seventeenth, century,” said Holmes, examining the building with an expert eye. ”Ring the bell, Watson; I am interested to see what it looks like inside.”

Dr Watson dutifully did as he was told, and soon after the front door was opened by a tall young man wearing a simple but elegant dark jacket with matching trousers and shoes, a plain shirt and a necktie. He had slightly wavy brown hair and blue eyes.

”Jones!” exclaimed Dr Watson. ”You are still with the Colonel?”

The young man – he could not been any older than twenty-five or twenty-six of years – smiled and made an elegant little half-bow.

”It is good to see you again, Captain Watson,” he said with a distinctive Welsh lilt in his soft voice. ”Colonel Holroyd is expecting you eagerly.”

”I am not the least surprised that he would insist on keeping you in his service,” Dr Watson turned to his wife. ”Jones here was the Colonel’s batman; the best one any officer could wish for. We all envied the Colonel for his good luck.”

The young man smiled again. ”That is very kind of you to say so, Captain,” then he stepped aside to allow them entry. ”If you would care to follow me…”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He led them to the large central room of the house, which served as an eclectic mix of a salon and a more formal drawing room, the influences of Mrs and Colonel Holroyd battling to win the upper hand – a battle that had not yet been decided, apparently.

The ceiling was corrugated with heavy oaken beams, and there was a huge, old-fashioned fireplace with an iron screen behind it, dated 1670. But the furniture was of the newest (and most expensive) fashion, a part of it very feminine and decorated with floral motifs, and while the half-panelled walls may well have belonged to the original builder, they were ornamented: on the lower part by a line of well-chosen water colours that clearly represented Mrs Holroyd’s taste; where yellow plaster took the place of oak, there was hung a fine collection of Afghani rugs and weapons – obviously brought back from the war by the Colonel.

The large room seemed to be divided by some invisible line into two clearly defined areas. Around the antique fireplace stood a few deep leather armchairs and a small table with an top made of onyx mosaic. In this area Colonel Holroyd and Inspector Bradstreet were sitting, nursing their drinks and smoking their pipes. They were both wearing dinner jackets with matching trousers and dress shirts and, in the Colonel’s case, an Ascot tie.

In the other half of the room stood a group of graceful settees, surrounding an already set tea table. This was obviously the ladies’ area, and it was occupied by Mrs Holroyd, Mrs Bradsteet and a slender, elegant woman of similar age, who would be later introduced as Dr Sawyer, impressing Dr Watson very much by the fact that she was a doctor. All three ladies were wearing supremely fashionable walking dresses, which made poor Mrs Watson feel woefully inadequate in comparison.

After the necessary introductions had been made, tea was served – separately for the ladies and the gentlemen. The latter were served by the ever-efficient Jones, while Mrs Holroyd’s maid, whom she called Alice instead by her surname as servants were usually called, served the ladies.

She was a pretty little thing, dressed just enough above her standing to show off her privileged status within the household; but there was something in her eyes that made Mary Watson shiver. She knew that peculiar expression of naïve cruelty from her years as a governess. She had seen it often enough on children who took delight in torturing small animals… or their own siblings and nannies.

Fortunately, she had ample practice in schooling her expression to friendly indifference when facing particularly unpleasant people. Therefore she pretended not to have taken much notice of the young girl, expressing instead her thanks to Mrs Holroyd for having them for tea.

”Nonsense!” the resolute lady waved off her – admittedly somewhat profuse – gratitude. ”Jacob is always filling the house with people he has served with in one war or another. It is a pleasant surprise to have a woman accompanying one of them; and a cultured, educated woman at that. I understand that you, too, used to work with children – is that true?”

”Oh, it is; but I could hardly compare my simple work with your exploits,” answered Mary humbly. ”I was but a governess in Mrs Cecil Forrester’s employ, but you… you had your own school!”

She infused a little more admiration into her words than strictly necessary. In the company of Mr Holmes she had learned that even the greatest minds thrive on praise, and Mrs Holroyd seemed the kind of woman who liked to be admired for her work.

Besides, if the good lady dismissed her as a feeble little creature, she would be less careful with her words. Being underestimated did have its advantages sometimes.

”That I had,” agreed the lady of the house. ”Those were good years,” she was clearly still mourning them. ”But sometimes we must make sacrifices to do our familial duty. Do tell me, though, Mrs Watson: how did _you_ meet the good doctor?”

”Through sheer luck, I believe,” replied Mary honestly. ”Mr Holmes once enabled my employer, Mrs Forrester, to unravel a little domestic complication. She was much impressed by his skill, though not by his lack of kindness. So when I found myself in a strange, utterly inexplicable situation, Mrs Forrester suggested that I should to turn to Mr Holmes – which I did – and Mr Holmes solved the ten-year-old mystery of my father’s disappearance in record time.”

”Your father?” echoed Mres Holroyd with interest; if Sherlock Holmes, who was known for being choosy which cases he would accept, had been willing to occupy his remarkable mind with the problem, Mrs Watson’s father could not have been just anybody.

Mary nodded. ”My father, Arthur Morstan, was an officer in an Indian regiment. He sent me home when I was quite a child. Since my mother was dead and I had no relative in England, I was placed in a comfortable boarding establishment in Edinburgh,” she named the school. ”I assume you have heard about it, Mrs Holroyd.”

”Of course,” replied the lady of the house. ”It still has an excellent reputation.” 

”And a well-deserved one, too,” said Mary. ”I remained there until I was seventeen years of age.In the year 1878 my father, who was then senior captain of his regiment, obtained twelve months’ leave and came home. He telegraphed me from London that he had arrived all safe, and directed me to come down at once, giving the _Langham Hotel_ as his address. By the time I reached London, however, he was gone without a trace, and I never saw him again. It took nearly ten years – _and_ Mr Sherlock Holmes – to find out what had happened to him.”

The ladies gave her expectant looks but she refused to say any more. The fate of her father was her personal business; the only thing that remained to her from him. She was _not_ sharing it with complete strangers. Not even for the sake of the current case.

”And you believe that Mr Holmes can find out what happened to poor Alice Spice as well?” asked Dr Sawyer after a lengthy pause.

Mary shrugged. ”If he cannot, no-one else can.”

”That is true,” said Mrs Bradstreet, more familiar with the past cases of her husband than the good inspector would imagine. ”James is very good at what he does, but Holmes is extraordinary. I hope he _will_ find out the truth; whatever it may be, it will bring Mr Spice much-needed closure,” she gave Mrs Holroyd a shrewd look. ”Did _you_ send him to Holmes?”

Emily Holroyd shook her head. ”Of course not; I merely suggested to him to hire a private investigator – a good one. I believe he made contact with Mr Holmes through a mutual acquaintance of us: Mr Langdale Pike.”

”Goodness!” Dr Sawyer shuddered demonstratively. ”Such a very unpleasant gentleman he is!”

”Indeed, he is,” allowed Mrs Holroyd. ”But he has his uses; even if no-one with an ounce of self-respect would admit having taken advantage of his resources.”

Mrs Bradstreet nodded in agreement.

”He is a necessary evil, like all the others of his kind,” she turned to Mary. ”Forgive my bluntness, Mrs Watson, but I would like to know why did Homes drag _you_ with him down here. I understand that your husband sometimes assists him with his cases; but again, he is a doctor…”

”… and I am but the doctor’s meek little wife,” Mary finished the sentence for her. ”Yes, I am aware of that. However many servants are more willing to talk to the meek little wife – especially to the meek, _pregnant_ little wife whom they can coddle to their heart’s desire – than to the intimidating Mr Holmes.”

”You are Homes’s secret weapon then?” asked Mrs Bradstreet with understandable doubt.

Mary nodded.

”And have you learned anything the great Sherlock Holmes could not?” pressed on the inspector’s wife.

”I believe so,” answered Mary modestly. ”It appears that Miss Spice had a suitor – someone wealthy and important enough that he could not afford a secret affair with a still-married woman. She came here to get a divorce; if she could have made her husband sign the divorce papers, money (either from her father _or_ from her lover) would have speeded up the process considerably.”

”That makes sense,” said Mrs Bradstreet thoughtfully. ”Why else should she come to Birmingham, of all places – somewhere no-one knew her? I wonder who this mysterious suitor of hers might have been, though.”

”No-one seems to know,” admitted Mary. ”Only that they had met in France, a year or less before her disappearance, and that he was apparently in Birmingham at the time she went missing.”

”Hmmm,” said Mrs Holroyd. ”Of course, we could make discreet enquiries at the hotels where such a man would be willing to stay,” she looked at her maid and the girl nodded, barely perceptively.

”You can leave out _The Grand Hotel_ ,” Mary told them. ”According to my sources he did not stay there. He did, however, arrive in a hansom to take Miss Space to the _Theatre Royal_ the evening she went missing.”

”He was seen then?” prompted Susan Bradstreet.

”Not his face,” clarified Mary. ”Just a fancily dressed tall man in a hansom, helping Miss Spice to get in.”

”And she disappeared that very night; as well as her still-husband,” said Mrs Holroyd. ”Where could they have gone?”

”Well,” replied Mrs Bradstreet, ”James would say there are several possibilities.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
” _Four_ possible solutions, based on the facts currently known to us,” corrected Holmes. 

The gentlemen were discussing the same thing in their half of the room, naturally.

”Oh?” said Colonel Holroyd, interested. ”Care to list them for us?”

”Certainly,” Holmes began to count the possibilities on his long fingers. ”Solution Number One: Miss Spice initiated the meeting with Anderson, after having forged a plan with her lover at the Boat Train. She wanted a divorce and met Anderson at the _Theatre Royal_. They quarrelled, she tore up their marriage certificate, he killed her in a fury. Their luggage remained at the train station because Anderson did not dare to go back for it.”

”But why was the luggage at the platform in the first place, as if they had planned to leave together for London?” asked Inspector Bradstreet. ”We know they had arrived at different times, from different directions.”

”Perhaps Anderson left it there to mislead the police, or any-one else who might have been looking for Miss Spice,” suggested Dr Watson.

”Speaking of which: where did _he_ go afterwards?” added Colonel Holroyd. ”And what did he do with the body? Her hypothetical lover would have looked for her.”

”True,” admitted Holmes. ”Those are justified questions, to which I have no satisfying answers – not _yet_.”

”What would be Solution Number Two then?” asked Inspector Bradstreet.

”Again, we assume that Miss Spice was the one who initiated the meeting. Anderson refused to sign the divorce papers, therefore Miss Spice’s new suitor arranged for Anderson to be murdered, so that the affair with a still married woman would not cast a bad light on his family. Subsequently, Miss Spice left England with her lover, probably for France, and the luggage was placed at the platform as false evidence.”

”Again: where is the body?” asked Colonel Holroyd.

Bradstreet shrugged. ”A man with enough money and influence to arrange somebody’s murder is also capable of having the evidence removed. Permanently.”

Holmes shook his head. ”No evidence can be truly removed; one just has to know where to look for it.”

”So you know where Anderson’s body is?” asked Dr Watson with a frown.

”I can name at least six places where it _could_ be,” said Holmes. ”Eventually, the police will have to search those places; that is, if they have any interest in solving this excellent little mystery.”

Bradstreet looked askance at Colonel Holroyd, but the Chief Constable shook his head.

”I prefer to hear the other possible solutions first,” he said.

”For your pleasure: Solution Number Three,” Holmes extended a third finger. ”Let us assume that it was Anderson who initiated the meeting, making Miss Spice believe that he is ready to sign the divorce papers. In truth, he was planning to win her back – we know he had bought her a brooch as a reconciliation gift – and threatened to make her affair public if she did not return to him. In her despair, she killed him in in a frenzy near the railway station – perhaps with a pistol? – and fled the country with her lover’s help, forgetting part of her luggage at the platform.”

Bradstreet frowned. ”What about Anderson’s suitcase, though? And again: where is the body?”

”Again: six possible places,” reminded them Holmes.

”Which we shall look up in due time,” said Colonel Holroyd. ”What is the fourth possible solution?”

”It is a bit far-fetched,” admitted Holmes, ”but not entirely impossible. In this case, Anderson would arrange the meeting, in the hope to repair their marriage – remember the brooch? Miss Robinson, whom Anderson had seduced with false promises – perhaps with the promise of marriage after his divorce – murdered them both and hid their bodies, say, in the cellar of _The Grand Hotel_ , or in some other place that is so ridiculous that no-one would think of it. Then she planted the false evidence, sending the luggage to the station as part of the hotel service.”

”For that, she must have had a partner-in-crime,” pointed out Dr Watson. ”Are you suspecting Billy the bellboy? That doesn't seem very likely to me.”

”Because you see but do not observe,” answered Holmes coolly. ”I, on the other hand, do not dismiss _any_ potential suspects without solid evidence.”

”You forgot a fifth possibility,” said Colonel Holroyd, grinning. ”Perhaps Anderson succeeded in winning his wife back and they eloped to some foreign country together, planting the false evidence so that their families would stop looking for them.”

”That is highly unlikely,” said Holmes. ”Miss Spice might have foolishly married Anderson in a bout of youthful rebellion, but she had sobered up years before her disappearance. More than that, you are forgetting about her secret affair, sir.”

”And affair we only know of from the gossip of the servants,” argued Colonel Holroyd. ”They could have been telling you lies.”

”Miss Robinson perhaps, out of spurned feelings,” allowed Holmes. ”But Mrs Smith, Mr Spice’s parlour-maid loved her ’Miss Alice’ like a daughter. She would never accuse her of an affair outside of her marriage – regardless of what a terrible mistake that marriage had been in the first place.”

”Is that your expert opinion, doctor?” asked Inspector Bradsteet with a slight sneer.

Dr Watson shook his head. ”No; this is the opinion of my wife, and I always bow to her expertise when it comes to female servants.”

”And rightly so,” supported him Holmes. ”As a governess, she might have ranked higher than a common servant, but she still got to know their mentality better than any of us could ever hope to.”

”All right; let us assume that the mysterious lover did, in fact, exist,” said Bradstreet. ”That, in my eyes, would make Solution Number Two the most likely one.”

”We still cannot eliminate the other possibilities yet,” warned Colonel Holroyd.

Bradstreet nodded. ”I'm aware of that, sir, but we have to start _somewhere_ – if you give us the word that is. I know you are reluctant to get the police involved.”

”I was,” admitted the colonel, ”as I did not believe that there had been an actual crime.”

”And now you believe it?” asked Dr Watson.

The colonel nodded. ”Now I believe in the _possibility_ of a crime. I have heard of Mr Holmes’s skill – who in England has not? – and I know that _you_ , Captain, are not the kind of man who would set out on a wild goose chase without a good reason. So I am willing to give this case a try, if for no other reason than to give a grieving father closure,” he shot the inspector a warning look. ”I will _not_ have the entire constabulary occupied with such a minor problem, though. You can dispatch Constable Davies to investigate but no-one else, understood?”

”Yes, sir,” answered Bradstreet unhappily.

”If you wish to spend your spare time on the case, it is up to you,” continued the colonel. ”It must not get in the way of your regular work, however.”

”Understood, sir,” said Bradstreet, galvanised by the chance to have at least some small part in solving the mystery that had caught his interest from the very beginning.

”And I expect to get regular reports of any headway you may have made,” finished Colonel Holroyd.

The inspector nodded. ”Of course, sir,” then he turned to Holmes. ”If you would kindly point us to the six possible places where Anderson’s body might have been hidden, we could begin our search to-morrow.”

”Certainly,” Holmes carefully tore a page from his small notebook. On the paper, there were six addresses, written by his unmistakable hand. ”The places are listed by the grade of likelihood, starting with the most likely one,” he explained.

Bradstreet studied the place-names with a frown. 

”I know these places,” he said. ”Four of them are churchyards, and the last two the local cemeteries.”

”Of course,” Holmes gave him a pitying look. ”Where would it be easier to hide a corpse? I sent Billy to the churchyards to look into their books and he made me a list of crypts that had been opened around the time of Miss Spice and Anderson’s disappearance.”

”But the crypts are usually sealed when another deceased family member is placed there, are they not?” said Bradstreet.

”Usually… but not in these particular cases,” repllied Holmes. ”These crypts were left unsealed for the following two or three days after the official funerals… time enough to smuggle in another dead body or two and hide them in the coffin of some long-dead occupant.”

”So you expect me to have those crypts opened and all the coffins searched, to see if they had been forcefully opened a decade ago,” summarised Bradstreet sourly. ”The families would be most upset about of disturbing the peace of their dead.”

”That is not necessary,” said Holmes. ”It is enough if you get _me_ into those crypts – they usually have a small side door, for the guardian of the cemetery to look after things. I can find the signs if one of the coffins had been manipulated; you will only have to re-open _those_.”

”That would still cause a great deal of bad feeling,” sighed the inspector. ”But we shall do what we have to do. How are you planning to find the mysterious lover, though?”

”By searching the old registers of the best hotels, of course,” answered Holmes. ”We shall list the names of all eligible candidates that stayed in Birmingham in those crucial days and see if any of them had previous contact to Miss Spice…”

”… or had shortly before arrived from France,” injected Dr Watson.

”…or both,” finished Holmes. ”If we find such a person, and I wager we will, then we can extend our investigation to see if any of them has a woman living with him, or close to him, who matches the description of Miss Spice. Elementary, my dear Watson.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
”You should leave the checking of the hotel books to me, Jacob,” said Mrs Holroyd at dinner.

Colonel Holroyd looked at her in surprise. ”Why ever should I? Constable Davies is a capable officer; I am sure he will find what we need.”

”Perhaps,” allowed Mrs Holroyd. ”But this is not an official investigation, so the hotelkeeper can simply refuse to show him the old registers. You know as well as I that the good hotels especially are wary towards the police. Their wealthy guests depend on their discretion; they would not put that trust at risk, since it is the very basis of their livelihood.”

That was true, of course. Especially young aristocrats who tended to meet with their lovers in comfortable and discreet hotels; it would have led to spectacular scandals, had any of those secret meetings become public.

”How do you intend to do it?” he asked warily.

His wife had a rather relaxed attitude towards the letter of the law sometimes. She liked to say that she honoured the spirit of the law rather than the letter. Colonel Holroyd called it bending the law at her whim. Their difference of opinions often caused tension between the two of them.

”I shall send Alice, of course,” she replied simply.

Colonel Holroyd closed his eyes. ”As I feared. I hope you will not have her steal the old registers from 1879. I cannot condone such an action.”

”You are ridiculous, Jacob,” said his wife impatiently. ”I shall be trying to confirm the presence of my unfortunate cousin in one of those hotels, so that I can clear his memory of an unjust accusation.”

”You do not _have_ a cousin!” pointed out Colonel Holroyd. ”Never had. Everyone knows that.”

”Which is why everyone will believe that the family refused to acknowledge him, because of his… er… questionable actions in the past,” replied Emily with a sly grin. ”They all know that I would come to the aid of somebody who has been unjustly accused of any wrongdoing. They will understand that I would do so even more eagerly when it comes to my own family.”

That, again, was very true. Emily Holroyd had been know all her life as a partisan for the unjustly accused. Or for the not-quite-so-unjustly accused, in the case of the juvenile criminals of her former school. People would simply accept that she was on the warpath to protect somebody – again – and let her have whatever she wanted.

Sending Alice Guppy to investigate for her would be seen as natural. Still, Colonel Holroyd would prefer to send Jones, who was also very good at ferreting out other people’s secrets and whom he could trust unconditionally.

Perhaps he _would_ send Jones after Guppy, after all. Jones was very good at melding into the background, too.

”All right,” he said. ”But warn her about overstepping her boundaries.”

His wife gave him a wicked grin. ”Do not worry. I can deal with Alice. She knows what she is allowed to do and what she is not.”

”I hope so,” said the Chief Constable grimly. ”I cannot afford to be accused of any illegal actions. Not even if my wife’s favourite maid is carrying out those actions.”

”Nonsense,” waved Emily impatiently. ”Your position is safe and secure.”

”And I would prefer it to remain that way,” he replied. ”See that she does not endanger it. She would not enjoy the consequences… and neither would you.”

”Is that a threat, husband mine?” she asked, challenge obvious in her voice.

He shook his head and gave her his best blinding smile. ”No, my dear; it is a promise. And you know I am a man who keeps his promises.”

”You are also a man who gained his current position due to the money and the influence of his wife’s father,” as expected, she did not back off one step. ”Do not make the mistake of believing that you can order me around… or to forbid me _anything_.”

”It is not my intention to order you around, madam,” he replied coldly. ”However, I do expect you to behave as it is fitting for the wife of a man in my position… _and_ to keep that little slattern of your maid on a _very_ short leash. Having her in our house is a liability already, due to her colourful past – should she as much as scratch the surface of the law, she will be gone faster than you can send a wire to your father,” he rose and headed for the door. ”Have a nice evening.”


	8. The Unquiet Dead

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am well aware of the fact that _Brandwood End Cemetery_ wouldn’t open its gates until 1899, i.e. ten years after this story takes place. However, photos of it make such a lasting impression that I wanted it as dramatic background for the upcoming events, so I used poetic licence to set back the opening of the cemetery by twenty years – to the exact time of Miss Spice’s disappearance.  
>  Details about the cemetery as well as about the safety coffins are borrowed from Wikipedia, with gratitude.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 08 – THE UNQUIET DEAD**

The search for the supposedly murdered Alfred Anderson’s supposedly hidden body took several days, despite the lead brilliantly deduced by the great Sherlock Holmes. After the investigation of various churchyards as well as at _Birmingham General Cemetery_ , located in the Jewellery Quarter in Hockley, had turned out to be fruitless, Holmes and his helpers – including the very capable Constable Davies – turned their attention to the new _Brandwood End Cemetery_ , which had first opened its gates a mere ten years previously, right around the time of Miss Spice’s disappearance.

“That would make actual sense,” commented Inspector Bradstreet, as of course he could not bear to stay out of the investigation completely, regardless of Colonel Holroyd’s orders. “With the finishing touches still going on, strangers entering the cemetery grounds would be easier to overlook.”

“My thoughts exactly,” nodded Holmes. “Which is why Watson and myself shall investigate the graves from that exact time period thoroughly.”

You would hardly find any evidence of the graves having been dug up again ten years ago,” commented Bradstreet.

“True,” allowed Holmes. “But the names on the headstones may prove conclusive, together with the results of the research regarding Miss Spice’s secret lover. And there are the crypts, of course.”

“You truly believe he would have Anderson’s body hidden in the grave of somebody related to him?” asked Bradstreet doubtfully.

Holmes shrugged. “It would make his presence less suspicious. We shall see… as soon as the good doctor can take himself away from his lovely wife.”

“Speaking of which, what is Mrs Watson supposed to do all on her own while her husband is gallivanting with you from cemetery to cemetery?” As a husband and a father himself, Bradstreet knew from first-hand experience that women seldom reacted well to being abandoned for days. Granted, Mrs Watson was a great deal more patient than his own resolute wife, but still…

“Oh, Mrs Watson has her own investigation to perform,” replied Holmes. “I asked her to find out where Anderson might have bought that brooch for his wife.”

“Is that detail of any real importance?”

“I cannot know until it is confirmed. But it is something a woman can find out easier; and Mrs Watson can be very charming and persuasive if she puts her mind to it.”

“You cannot send out a _pregnant_ woman to do investigations for you, alone in an unknown city!” protested the inspector. “Birmingham has grown considerably in recent decades, and it led to the increased activity of the criminal classes; life is no longer as safe here as it once used to be.”

Holmes waved off his concern impatiently. “She shan't be alone. Dr Sawyer offered to accompany her. They'll pretend that Mrs Watson wants to buy a similar brooch.”

“That is a good idea.” said Bradstreet in obvious relief. “Dr Sawyer comes from a well-respected family; the jewellers will be eager to cooperate, in the hope of winning her as a regular customer. But will Mrs Watson be able to afford such a piece? I saw that brooch: it must have cost a pretty penny. I actually wonder how _Anderson_ could afford it, unless he robbed somebody.”

“There are ways,” replied Holmes, “less suspicious yet equally criminal ones for men like Anderson. As for Mrs Watson, though, she needs not to worry about the price. I can afford it; and I owe her some small compensation for her help with this case… and for her patience with her husband’s frequent absences due to my work.”

Bradstreet raised an eyebrow. He would not consider a brooch similar to the one Anderson had brought for his wife a small compensation. That was the problem with rich amateurs, he found; they had no idea how the common folk lived. Although he had to admit that Holmes was probably an exception, due to his unique observation skills.

He decided to drop the subject, more so as in that very moment an excited and flustered Dr Watson hurried in, ready to go.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
As a man of refined taste and with a definite interest in art (including architecture) Holmes silently admitted to himself that the _Brandwood End Cemetery_ was beautifully constructed. While still too new to have that elusive air of solidity only constructions a century or more old, it was certainly an impressive sight.

Its semi-detached mortuary chapels, built from red brick and terracotta in the Gothic style and joined by a carriage entrance archway (otherwise known as a _porte cochre_ ) stood in the highest part of the cemetery grounds, providing a dramatic central focus for the cemetery. From the archway, which was surmounted by a tower and spire, a grand, tree-lined central driveway ran from north to south. There were subsidiary paths, which ran in the east and west directions, at right angles to the central driveway, dividing the cemetery into its various sections.

The landscape was planted with a mixture of evergreen and deciduous trees: Scots pines, cypress trees, redwoods, horse-chestnuts, beeches, hornbeams, poplars and oaks. The dark green foliage was deliberately planted to present a striking contrast to the red terracotta chapels. In the mere ten years of its existence, the landscape had definitely taken on a pleasing form.

“The chapels were designed by a local architect, Mr J Berwin Holmes,” explained Bradstreet. “They are completely identical, although the East Chapel is for non-conformists, while the West Chapel has been consecrated for the services of the Church of England.”

“Holmes, huh?” echoed Dr Watson with interest. “A relative of yours?”

“Hardly,” replied Holmes in a manner that would put any African desert to shame. “Our family has served the Crown in vastly different functions. So, where can we get a map of the grounds?”

“In the Cemetery Lodge,” replied Bradstreet. “That is where the living quarters and the offices of the cemetery Superintendent are.”

Like the mortuary chapels, the Cemetery Lodge was built from red brick and terracotta, with decorative gables and tall chimneys. Dr Watson expected the cemetery Superintendent, an elderly gentleman by the name of Mr Ebenezer Paget, to be a small, bent man with a cadaverous face and matching sepulchre like voice. Instead, they were met by a rotund, middle-aged person of almost morbidly cheerful manners and rosy cheeks, albeit properly dressed in sombre black.

He also appeared to be a great admirer of Inspector Bradstreet and obviously had heard of Holmes before, as he greeted the detective with great enthusiasm.

“So, you want to examine the very first graves and family crypts, do you?” he then said, spreading a detailed map of the cemetery over his desk. “As you can see, the oldest – and if I may add, most impressive – funeral monuments are grouped around the mortuary chapels. While _Brandwood End_ is a cemetery for everyone, the local great and the good naturally purchased their grave plots there.”

He pointed out half a dozen graves and family crypts to them, naming the well-respected families to whom they belonged. At one name Bradstreet suddenly looked up like a bloodhound catching a scent.

“The Colberts? Were they not an offshoot of the Colmore family?”

Mr Paget beamed at the inspector in the manner of a proud owner whose pet had just done something clever.

“Very good, Inspector! For someone not originally from here you are amazingly well-informed about the local nobility.”

“Actually, my _wife_ is the one with the knowledge,” replied Bradstreet with a shrug; turning to Holmes and Watson, he added. “The Colmores are the richest, most influential family in Birmingham. They have been here since the 1400s or so.”

“Originally, they were French and made their wealth in the cloth trade,” supplied Mr Paget. “They have extended their interest in many other areas since then. The Colberts, also French by origins, were brought into the family when a rich Colmore heiress married a penniless bastard son of some French nobleman. However, the Colbert family has become extinct by now. The last member was Miss Josephine Colbert, who died from the lung fever ten years ago, at the ripe old age of eighty-seven.”

“Why was she not buried with the rest of her family?” asked Holmes in surprise.

Mr Paget shrugged. “The Colberts had their grave plot at the churchyard of _St Philip’s_ ; but the old churchyards have become overcrowded and in some places a health risk. Miss Josephine had it written in her will that she wanted to be buried in a proper cemetery. And as she was a devout member of the Church of England, the extended family decided to lay her to rest here.”

Holmes studied the list given to him by Billy, the bellboy of _The Grand Hotel_.

“I was told that the cover slab of her grave was not sealed right after the funeral,” he commented.

“That is true,” admitted Mr Paget. “She was among the first ones who were buried here; the sculptors were overwhelmed by the demands for effigies, therefore a few graves were not properly sealed for some days. Hers was one of those.”

“Can you arrange for those graves to be re-opened?” asked Holmes.

Mr Paget was visibly shocked by the blasphemous idea.

“I fear that would not be possible, Mr Holmes! The families would never allow us to disturb the peace of their deceased ones!”

“The families will have to suffer it,” said Bradstreet with authority. “We have reason to believe that the body of a murdered person has been hidden in one of those graves.”

“A murdered…” gasped Mr Paget in utter shock.

“But,” continued the inspector, “we could do it after the closing hours, without any-one being the wiser.”

“I do not believe it would be appropriate,” protested Mr Paget.

“I can bring an order from the Chief Constable, in which case we would open the graves by force,” said Bradstreet causally. “Do you believe the families would like that?”

It was highly unlikely that Colonel Holroyd would ever give such an order, but Mr Paget did not need to know that. And it was doubtlessly true that a scandal of such magnitude would have made the families in question very upset. Considering how wealthy and influential said families were, upsetting them would have been a bad idea indeed. Therefore Mr Paget gave in and reluctantly agreed to summon a trustworthy stone-mason who would open the graves of interest under the cover of the night, so that Holmes and Bradstreet could do their investigation quickly and discretely.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Do you truly expect to find Anderson’s body in one of those graves?” asked Dr Watson by dinner.

He and Mary were sitting in the restaurant of _The Grand Hotel_ with Holmes and the Bradstreets, though – as was his wont – the great detective did not eat while working on a case. He stated that eating slowed down the working of his mind, and nothing the good doctor would say could ever change his opinion.

“Those are the last places where it could be,” said Holmes. “We have checked all the other possible places. It _must_ be there.”

“And if is not?” asked Mary quietly.

“Then my theory was wrong and we must continue our investigation in a different direction,” said Holmes. “But since I am right, that will not be necessary.”

“Pride cometh before a fall,” quoted the doctor; then he looked at his wife.” And what have _you_ found out, my dear?”

“Nothing,” she said. “We postponed the visit to the Jewellers' Quarter for tomorrow, as Dr Sawyer was unexpectedly called back to work – as, I am certain, you are aware of. I do not mind, though. Tomorrow is supposed to be somewhat cooler and I am a little fatigued.”

“Are you sure you are strong enough for it?” asked Dr Watson in concern.

She smiled and nodded. “Yes, John. You worry too much. I am with child, not terminally ill.”

“I fear I cannot help it,” confessed the doctor sheepishly. “Not when it comes to my own wife and unborn child.”

“Then you will perhaps understand that I am worried, too, when you and Mr Holmes haunt the cemeteries at night or confront murderers,” she said.

Holmes rolled his eyes in exasperation.

“The dead are no longer a danger for us,” he pointed out. “Nor are we doing anything illegal.”

“ _This_ time,” commented Bradstreet drily.

Holmes raised an eyebrow. “You _are_ coming with us, are you not?”

Bradstreet gave him a grim smile. “If you believe I would let you to have all the excitement, sir, you are sorely mistaken.”

Mary and Mrs Bradstreet exchanged long-suffering looks.

“These gentlemen lead unusual lives,” commented the inspector’s wife and Mary nodded, pulling a face.

“Yes. These gentlemen,” she echoed.

“But,” continued Mrs Bradstreet brightly, “at least you are going to have a grand time with Dr Sawyer tomorrow. The Jewellers' Quarter is an amazing place. I would love to join you, but everyone knows that my husband is a police inspector, so people wouldn't tell us anything.”

She seemed decidedly unhappy to be left out and her husband suppressed a sigh. An unhappy Susan Bradstreet was not a pleasant person to live with.

“You could go in disguise,” suggested Holmes; when the other two men laughed, he looked at them with a frown. “I mean it! She could easily disguise herself with the help of a wig and clothes she usually wouldn't wear…”

“Ridiculous!” muttered the inspector.

His wife gave him a speculative look. “No, it is actually an excellent idea. Go and look for your corpse; Mrs Watson and I will work out our battle plan for tomorrow.”

“She is right,” Holmes stood. “The cemetery closes its gates in twenty minutes. I'm desirous to see what we may find in Miss Colbert’s grave.”

“What makes you so certain that hers is the one where we would find something?” asked Dr Watson.

Holmes gave him a tight smile. “The French connection, my dear Watson. The French connection.”

Dr Watson and Inspector Bradstreet exchanged blank looks; then they shrugged simultaneously and followed Holmes out.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The grave monument of the late Miss Josephine Colbert looked like a miniature copy of an Ancient Greek temple, complete with a triangular roof and sixteen Doric pylons… rather modest, compared with the grieving angels and other elaborate effigies adorning the other nearby graves. The grave itself was covered with simple, unadorned stone slabs that were cemented together with mortar so neatly that they seemed like a single stone top.

Next to the grave Mr Paget was already waiting for them, accompanied by a small, wiry old man whose tools at once revealed him as a stone-mason, two burly chaps in drab clothes, holding shovels – doubtlessly professional grave-diggers – and a slim, elegant figure whom they recognised as Dr Sawyer, despite the fact that she was wearing men’s clothes. It was safer when she had to go out during the night.

“I asked her to be present,” explained Bradstreet. “She knows more about corpses than all of us together.”

“I beg your pardon!” protested Holmes indignantly.

Bradstreet gave him a sour look. “You may be a remarkably intelligent man, Mr Holmes, but she deals with dead bodies for a living. _And_ she has the authority to officially declare the cause of death in her function as the police pathologist, so you will just have to swallow your pride and allow her to do her work,” he turned to the cemetery Superintendent. “Can we begin? We only have the night to dig up the grave and close it again.”

“Of course, of course,” Mr Paget seemed a lot less enthusiastic than he had been upon their first meeting. He looked at the stone-mason in concern. “Are you certain you can return the original look of the grave top, Wiggins?”

“Fairly sure, sir,” promised the old man. “The mortar will take a few days to harden out, but when it does, the grave will look as it always has.”

With that, he set his chisel at the first joining of the slabs and hit it with the hammer. The ten-year-old mortar gave in and broke in one long, neat line, separating the slab on the left side.

“Nice work,” commented Dr Watson.

“It requires a steady hand and a great deal of practice, sir, nothing else,” replied the old man without looking up.

The repeated the move another two times and all four slabs came free, allowing the grave-diggers to lay them to the side and begin their work… which proved long and arduous. Obviously, their colleagues had done proper work ten years previously; the grave was fairly deep, and the weight of the stone slabs had pressed the earth very hard. It took them more than an hour to reach the coffin, and another thirty minutes to free it completely. Then they pulled it out of the grave with the help of ropes and placed next to it.

“Let me open the coffin,” said Bradstreet. “I'm a police officer, I'm allowed to do it; and Dr Sawyer can confirm the age and gender of the person within.”

“I can do that, too,” pointed out Dr Watson.

“True; but you are not an official police consultant, so your testimony wouldn't count,” replied Bradstreet and took a deep breath, “Well; let us do it before I change my mind!”

He asked the stone-mason for a loan of chisel and hammer and put the tools to the somewhat corroded clasps of the coffin. It was an elaborate one, made from English oak, and equipped with the safety bell that had come into fashion after the great cholera epidemics earlier in the century, during which people sometimes had been buried prematurely. In the late 1870s, however, such safety coffins had become a costly item; the late Miss Colbert must have been terribly afraid of being buried alive mistakenly _and_ rich enough to be able to afford one.

“God, I hate this part!” muttered the inspector, breaking up the clasps, so that the coffin could be opened.

To their surprise, the smell coming from the now open coffin was not terribly revolting. The small, almost child-like body of the old woman seemed to have gradually dried out during the previous decade in a form of spontaneous mummification, unexpected though such thing might be by the English climate. It seemed like a fragile doll, with its silvery hair fine like cobwebs and the once fitting dress becoming way too lose on the shrunken body. A small book of prayers, bound in black leather, lay upon her chest.

“Well,” said Bradstreet. “This seems to be the old lady all right. And no-one else has been put next to her… not that there would be room for anything larger than a kitten.”

“They must have buried Anderson _under_ her!” insisted Holmes.

“But where?” one of the grave-diggers peeked into the empty hole. “There ain’t no other coffin.”

Holmes glared at him in annoyance. “Well, obviously they threw some earth over it, or else it would have been detected by Miss Colbert’s burial! Dig deeper!”

The grave-diggers gave him mutinous looks but Mr Paget’s quiet order made them obey. And indeed, another foot deeper their shovels hit on wood again. Holmes’s eyes glowed in excitement.

“I knew it would be here! Quickly, get it out!”

It took them another half-hour till they could free the other item – which was _not_ a coffin at all! It was a woman's travelling trunk ; a rather large one, with metal fastenings. It was also sealed with a padlock. Inspector Bradstreet removed the padlock with the help of chisel and hammer and lifted the lid.

This time the stench of decay was truly horrible; the source of it obvious. In the trunk, folded into a bizarre position so that it could fit in, was a dead body... and one in a much worse condition than Miss Corbet’s remains.

It was also definitely the body of a man – and a big man at that – dressed in what once had been the cheap black jacket and trousers of the lower classes. His hair was black, too, and he had an impressive moustache that apparently had kept growing after his death for a while.

“Well, this answers one of our questions, I say,” said Bradstreet thoughtfully. “This is most likely our missing Mr Anderson.”

“We must search his clothes, but we should not disturb the body just yet,” suggested Holmes. “Its position should reveal important facts about cause and circumstances of his death, once we can examine it in sufficient light.”

“We should have the trunk taken to the morgue as it is,” agreed Dr Sawyer. “There I can examine the body properly and Mr Holmes can deduce whatever he might read from his belongings.”

She then looked at Dr Watson questioningly. “You are welcome to assist me with the examination of the body if you wish.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
By the time the body was taken to the police morgue, together with the trunk, Dr Sawyer had found the opportunity to change into her working clothes, namely a long dress made of rough wool and a linen apron. Oversleeves of the same fabric protected the sleeves of her dress, a linen bonnet covered her hair completely, and she was wearing gloves, too, 

Holmes declared himself impressed by this level of professionalism.

“Very laudable, Dr Sawyer,” he announced. “I appreciate the fact that you have gone such great lengths to prevent the contamination of evidence through your own tracks.”

The lady doctor gave him a somewhat insulted look.

“I hate to disappoint you, Mr Holmes, but I did not do this for your sake,” she replied. “This is how I _always_ dissect bodies.”

“Do you have an apron for me, too?” asked Dr Watson quickly, to prevent an argument from happening.

Dr Sawyer waved in the direction of a curtained-off area at the other end of the room.

“I believe you would be more comfortable with a linen coat, doctor. We always have a few of them ready, in case my assistants might need them.”

A short time later Watson returned, his clothes now well-protected, and they could start working. Before they would remove the body, though, Holmes insisted on examining the trunk itself, stating that it could tell them a great deal of information beforehand.

It was a so-called monitor-top trunk, a style that had become popular in the late 1870s, meaning that at first only the wealthy could afford them. It had characteristic rounded front and rear corners, to form a lying-down D when viewed from the side and thus was much better suited to hide a body than the more squarely built types.

“I remember when these first came out, fifteen or more years ago,” commented Dr Sawyer. “They were supposed to replace the Saratoga trunks but proved too expensive for wide-spread use.”

“Small wonder,” said Bradstreet. “Just look at those labour-intensive hardwood slabs curved with the top! It is understandable why the flat-tops became so popular at about the same time. They are much easier to make and thus better suited for mass production; not to mention more practical for storage.”

“It is also understandable that somebody like Miss Spice would own a more luxurious type,” added Dr Sawyer. “She only ever accepted the best and finest of everything.”

“You knew her?” asked Dr Watson in surprise.

She shrugged. “Not very well. We met a few times as children, and later at _Almack’s_ in London, that is all. I do know that she had a refined – and rather expensive – taste, however.”

“And her father obviously indulged in her every whim,” said Bradstreet drily.

Dr Sawyer shook her head. “He did not have to. Alice had her own considerable funds, inherited from her mother’s family; and she was of legal age. She could do as she pleased.”

“Including sacrificing her expensive trunk to serve as the coffin for her murdered husband,” commented Holmes.

Bradstreet frowned at him. “Did you find out anything from the trunk?”

“Well, it obviously belonged to Miss Spice,” Holmes pointed at the engraved A.C. initials on the antique brass lock and keep of the trunk. “The keyhole shows no scratch marks, therefore it was opened and then closed with its own key, even if the key itself is missing.”

“Perhaps it was in the grave somewhere,” suggested Constable Davies.

“Possibly but rather unlikely,” answered Holmes. “They would not want to make it easier to open the trunk, should anyone discover it by accident before Miss Colbert’s funeral. It matters not. The key would be of no importance for us, even if we could find it. Ten years in the earth would have destroyed any fingerprints it may have had; although I am fairly certain that the murderer were wearing gloves.”

“In early September?” asked Bradstreet doubtfully.

“We are dealing with intelligent murderers, Inspector; at the very least the mastermind behind this evil deed would have thought of it. The science of investigation had made a great deal of headway in the recent decades, and intelligent criminals keep up with the new methods, for their own protection.”

“Perhaps we will find more evidence _inside_ the trunk, once we have removed the body,” offered Dr Watson. 

Holmes nodded. “We must first examine the body in its current position, though, as it can tell us a great many things.”

“Such as?” asked Constable Davies, clearly fascinated.

“Look at its posture; it is turned around itself like an unborn child in the womb,” explained Holmes. “Now, this is a fairly large trunk, but Anderson was a big man. What do these two contrasting facts tell me?”

“He must have been stored in the trunk right after he was killed,” said Dr Watson. “Before the _rigor mortis_ would set in.”

“Or much later, when it had already lost its effect,” supplied Dr Sawyer.

“Or they could have simply broken his bones to force him inside,” pointed out Bradstreet.

Holmes shook his head. “I do not believe that this was a spontaneous crime, committed in affect. Somebody had planned everything meticulously: Anderson’s murder, the method to hide the body, the false evidence left at the railway station. They could not foresee that their ‘evidence” would end up in the Lost Luggage Office and be forgotten for the next ten years.”

“So you believe he was killed, immediately stuffed into the trunk and buried in Miss Colbert’s greave?” asked Bradstreet.

Holmes nodded. “That is my theory, yes. Now, if Constable Davies could kindly take a few photographs of his current position, we could get him out of there and find out how he was killed.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Constable Davies did as he was asked and hurried back to the Police Station House to develop the photographs. Holmes, Bradsteet and Dr Watson then combined their strength and skills to remove the body from the trunk, without ruining either of them irreparably. It wasn’t an easy task, but after a while the unnaturally bent body was finally lying on the autopsy table on his left side.

“No broken bones,” said Dr Sawyer, after having felt along the dead man’s limbs and ribs. “That confirms Mr Holmes’s theory: he was killed and put into the trunk immediately.”

“Unfortunately, we shan’t be able to straighten his limbs without breaking them,” added Dr Watson. “We will have to cut his clothes away to examine the body more closely.”

Dr Sawyer was already handing him a monstrous pair of surgery shears, large enough to trim hedges, and he set to work. A few minutes later the late Anderson’s overcoat, trousers, waistcoat and shirt could be peeled off and Holmes spread them over an empty table to search them thoroughly with the help of his magnifying lens. The two doctors did the same with the semi-mummified body.

“Well, at least we do not have to make any wild guess about the cause of death,” said Dr Watson, gesturing at the bullet hole in the dead man’s chest. “From the size of the wound I would say it was caused by a revolver bullet, which had mushroomed out, as soft-nosed bullets will, so that the wound must have caused instantaneous death.”

“It was not an assassination, then,” said the inspector. “He died facing his murderer.”

“At the very least he was shot in the chest,” corrected Holmes. “We do not know if he had actually _seen_ the murderer. A good marksman could have done it from a considerable distance.”

“Not with a revolver, though,” argued Bradstreet. “They do not have a long range, and distance makes it hard to take proper aim.”

“There is no exit wound,” said Dr Sawyer, searching the back of the corpse for the very thing. “Perhaps if I find the bullet you can tell what kind of weapon it was fired from.”

“Can you do so without destroying the bullet?” asked Holmes.

Dr Sawyer gave him an annoyed look. “I am a fully trained coroner, Mr Holmes. I can pick out any bullet from any dead body you want. Believe me or not, having spent a childhood with doing delicate needlework can prove useful in my chosen field of work.”

Holmes opened his mouth, perhaps to make some disparaging comment, but he caught Dr Watson’s quelling glare and reconsidered; which, to be honest, surprised Bradstreet a little. He never thought that any-one would ever be able to rein in Holmes’s acerbic nature but again, he did not know Dr Watson well. Perhaps there was more to the mild-mannered former Army doctor than what met the eye.

While he was considering this, Dr Sawyer brought forth some strange-looking tools that could have fit a medieval torture chamber and began to carefully manipulate the ten-year-old entrance wound. Finding the bullet did not prove such a difficult task but getting it out of the wound undamaged did. Fortunately, Dr Sawyer proved to be very skilled indeed, and after some very careful, very patient manipulation she managed to pull out the deformed bullet in one piece.

“What do you think?” she asked Dr Watson, dropping the bullet onto a tray. 

Watson gave the deformed piece of metal a thorough look.

“Well, it _is_ an expanding bullet all right,” he finally judged, “but it seems too big for a revolver; unless it was fired from a very short distance.”

“It was not,” Holmes interrupted. “There are no powder burns either on the body or on the dead man’s clothes. Therefore the bullet could not have been fired from any closer than at least three feet.”

“Then it could not have been a revolver,” said Dr Watson. “No marksman, no matter how good he is, could fire such a heavy bullet from a revolver and hit its target with such precision from a greater distance. This man was shot straight in the heart; and the bullet was already slowed down enough so that it did not go through his body.”

“But what kind of weapon could it have been?” asked Bradstreet.

“I have no idea,” admitted Dr Watson. “In all my years as a soldier and a battle surgeon I have never seen a gunshot wound like this.”

Which, coming from him of all people, meant a lot, the inspector found. He said so. The doctor merely shrugged.

“I am afraid we must accept that we cannot clear this aspect of the case right now,” he said. ”Perhaps it was a custom-made weapon – rich people like such things. At the very least we know now what happened to Anderson. His mother will be heartbroken, but at least she can have her son properly buried. Mr Spice is not the only interested party in this case,” he added, a little less friendly than usual. It had angered him before that everyone seemed to focus on Mr Spice and his worries alone.

“You are right, Watson,” allowed Holmes. “I still ask you not to tell Mrs Anderson the news; not yet. I still hope that we can reveal this murder in all its details; and we would lose that chance if it came out that we have found the body.”

Dr Watson reluctantly agreed. But he chose to remain in the morgue and help Dr Sawyer finish the examination of the body, while Holmes returned to their hotel and the inspector went home.


	9. Ladies' Day Out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Details about the Jewellery Quarter in Birmingham are borrowed from Wikipedia, with gratitude.  
> The real _Cavendish’s_ , while an actually existing jeweller's firm in Birmingham, has nothing to do with the one depicted in this chapter. The brooches described have been “borrowed” from their collection, though. _Davies’s_ and _Morgan’s_ are a product of my imagination; and so are the various hotels mentioned. Only _The Grand Hotel_ is a true item.  
>  **Warning:** Gratuitous descriptions of beautiful Victorian jewellery. Yes, I know it wasn’t strictly necessary, but I simply couldn’t resist. ;)

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 09 – LADIES’ DAY OUT**

The Jewellers' Quarter of Birmingham was situated in the south of the Hockley area, on a piece of land sold by the Colmore family in 1746, to help satisfy the demands of an increasing population. By that time, the family had moved out and let _New Hall Manor_ to tenants. _St Paul’s Church_ , the most impressive building of the area, had been completed in 1779. Georgian houses aimed at the prosperous middle class had been constructed around St Paul’s Square.

Now, a hundred years later, the Quarter showed clear signs of the growth of the manufacturing industry since that time. Even though the number of jewellers in the area had reduced significantly in the 1820s as a result of economic problems, Hockley had developed as a distinct ‘quarter’ at the centre of the city’s jewellery industry after the mid-1930s, and in the 1950s many residential properties overlooking St Paul’s Square had been converted into workshops, with the jewellers living above their workshops in the second and third storeys.

Alongside these refined and elegant show windows Mary Watson was now strolling, with Mrs Bradstreet accompanying her - disguised in men’s clothes, which she clearly was not wearing for the first time, seeing how comfortably she moved in them. Dr Sawyer had excused herself after having worked in the morgue half the night.

“Right now, the Jeweller's Quarter’s output surpasses that of the jewellery trade in Derby, which is our closest competitor,” explained Mrs Bradstreet. “In fact, half the gold- and silverware products on sale in London's Jeweller's shops are produced here. Most jewellers still work in small workshops that employ between five and fifty people. Nine out of ten master jewellers were originally craftsmen. And, as you can see, they do beautiful work,” she added with a faint smile.

“I'm certain that you are much more familiar with all kinds of jewellery than I am, Mrs Bradstreet,” replied Mary humbly.

Susan Bradstreet gave her an exasperated look. 

“I see we must rehearse our tactics, Mary,” she said. “Remember, I'm your cousin – it is a good thing that we are both blonde – and here to help you choose your wedding anniversary gift. For God’s sake, do remember to call me Basil, or the whole masquerade has been for nothing!”

“I'm sorry,” murmured Mary demurely. “I'm not used to such… adventures. You, on the other hand, seem very comfortable in men’s clothes. This is not the first time you have worn them is it?”

“You are very observant; Mr Holmes' skills must be rubbing off to you,” said Susan Bradstreet. “You are right, of course. There are places where only men are allowed; but not all of us are willing to accept that. So we find ways to sneak in undetected.”

“Who is _we_ , if I may ask?”

“You may,” Susan Bradstreet grinned widely under the fake moustache she was wearing; she played a man very convincingly. 

Of course, having a not very feminine face helped.

“You see, Dr Sawyer, Emily Holroyd and I are childhood friends,” she continued. “Even though Sarah comes from the country gentry and Emily and I don't. But we've always enjoyed considerable freedom, due to the wealth and influence of our families; which, by the way, helped our respective husbands to gain their current positions. We were not willing to give up all that, just to become meek little wives… no offence intended,” she added hastily.

Mary smiled. “None taken. Personally, I prefer being the meek little wife of a good, decent man like John Watson to being a harassed governess in some wealthy house where the husband believes he could demand… err… personal services from me; but we come from different worlds in that aspect. I imagine things are vastly different for ladies of your social status.”

“They are,” admitted Mrs Bradstreet, ”although the restrictions still chafe. Thus we have founded… well, a sort of club, you could call it, I guess. Sometimes we dress up as men to visit men’s clubs or other gatherings where only gentlemen are welcome; it is great fun. Of course, I find it easier to disguise myself than, say, Emily,” she added with a self-deprecating grin. “She is very pretty and quite curvaceous, and disguising _that_ takes a lot of work. But it is doable; and it is definitely worth the effort.”

“And no-one has ever recognised you?” asked Mary in surprise.

Mrs Bradstreet shook her head.

“Not once. We are careful, of course. I would never attend an event where James is likely to show up. He is very observant; not as good as Mr Holmes, naturally – no-one is – but much better than your average policeman. He would spot me in the middle of a crowd, even in disguise.”

“What would happen if you were found out?”

“Nothing, I imagine,” said Mrs Bradstreet with a shrug. “You see, unlike Emily, whose husband comes from our own social circles, I actually married below my status. My mother is Beatrice Vermont – I assume you have heard the name?”

Mary nodded. The Vermonts were the greatest competitors with the Colmore family in the textile industry, specialising in theatrical costumes all over England, and Beatrice Vermont, the head of the family, ruled over their empire with an iron fist – one covered in a velvet glove. Their wealth, like that of the Colmores, was legendary, and so was their influence in Birmingham and its surroundings.

“I met James in London, related to a case in which Mr Holmes, too, was involved,” continued Susan Bradstreet. “He impressed me with his skills and his endurance, so when he applied for this post in Birmingham, I had my mother use her contacts. He was more than worthy, and I wanted him to get the chance he so richly deserved.” She grinned. “ _And_ I had my personal agenda concerning him, of course. We married less than a year later.”

“Why do you keep your… activities from him, then?” asked Mary.

“Because he would never understand my reasons,” answered Mrs Bradstreet a little sadly. “He is a good man, but still a man, with the shared prejudices of all men towards women. You should have seen him while I was pregnant. You cannot believe all that hovering and concern.”

“I think I can,” said Mary drily. “I have a hovering, concerned _doctor_ as a husband. Believe me, that's ten times worse.”

Mrs Bradstreet laughed; as she had a naturally deep and somewhat rough voice, it sounded like the laughter of a man. Or very close to it, at least.

“I imagine it is,” she said. “Now, let us begin at _Cavendish’s_. Do you have a drawing of the brooch? It would be easier to find the source it came from if we could actually show it.”

“I have a photograph,” Mary Watson pulled a sheet of paper out of her handbag. “Not as detailed as a drawing, of course, but…”

“It will do,” Susan Bradstreet examined the slightly blurred picture. “An experienced jeweller will be able to make out the details. It would help if we knew the colour of the stone, though.”

“It is blue,” said Mary promptly. “I asked.”

“You are very good at this detecting business,” Mrs Bradstreet complimented her.

“I have to be,” replied Mary with a modest smile. “My husband associates with Sherlock Holmes, after all. I cannot afford to be stupid.

“That is an association you would best _not_ to mention within the earshot of Mr Cavendish,” advised Mrs Bradstreet. “He is as honest as the day is long, but jewellers tend to become concerned when detectives are mentioned.”

“I will not,” promised Mary.

“Good,” Susan Bradstreet said. “Let us go in, then, and take a look around.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
 _Cavendish’s_ was one of the oldest jewellery workshops in the Quarter, with a dark-panelled exhibition room, in which the various items of jewellery were presented on velvet-lined display counters, also made from dark, polished wood. Mr Cavendish Senior, an elderly gentleman in a dark frock coat, hurried forth from the actual workshop situated in the adjoining room at the first ring of the bell to greet the potential customers.

It became obvious for Mary at once that Mrs Bradstreet’s alias had to be a regular visitor in the Quarter, as Mr Cavendish greeted her in delight.

“Mr Blake, what a pleasure to have you in our modest establishment!” he exclaimed. “How may I be of assistance?”

“My cousin,” Mr Cavendish gestured in Mary’s direction, “is looking for a brooch, similar to the one she saw at a friend’s house.”

“I see,” Mr Cavendish gave Mary a perfunctory bow, quickly reassessing his first impression of her, mentally elevating her to the status of a customer. “Could you describe the brooch, madam?”

“It was quadratic, with a single, elongated blue stone,” explained Mary. “It had a gold-plated, milled edge border.”

“Perhaps you should show Mr Cavendish the photograph,” suggested Mrs Bradstreet and Mary complied.

Mr Cavendish studied the black and white picture for quite some time.

“It is surprisingly detailed,” he finally said. “I never thought this new method could yield such an accurate picture. In any case, while the craftsmanship appears to be fine enough, we do not produce – or sell – such cheap items.”

“Cheap?” echoed Mary in surprise. “I thought it was a valuable brooch.”

Mr Cavendish gave her a politely condescending smile.

“Valuable, perhaps, but not a truly exquisite piece,” he said. “This is the sort of jewellery you would find at _Davies’s_ or _Morgan’s_ – not in _our_ workshop.”

“Oh,” said Mary, a little flummoxed. She had the vague feeling that her taste in jewellery had just been weighed and found wanting. 

Not that it would be her taste, of course, it had been Anderson’s choice, after all, but it was still rather embarrassing. Humiliating even.

Mrs Bradstreet recognised the need to interfere.

“Well, we can still pay _Davies’s_ and _Morgan’s_ a visit later,” she said briskly. “But since we are already here, why don’t we take a look at Mr Cavendish’s exhibits? You can hardly find more exquisite pieces anywhere else.”

Before Mary could protest, she turned to the shop owner. “Can you perhaps suggest something that has a similar shape? My cousin seems to have set her heart on that quadratic form.”

Mr Cavendish looked at Mary – with more than a little doubt, to be honest – then at Mrs Bradstreet, whom he apparently believed to be a young gentleman named Basil Blake, and finally nodded.

“If you prefer a milled edge border, madam, then perhaps you would like this gold and amethyst brooch,” he said, presenting them a brooch set with a single faceted oval cut amethyst.

It was about two inches long, with triple and double claw setting and a secure pin fastening with additional safety chain. Simple, lovely and elegant, it matched Mary’s personal taste perfectly. She would have taken it at once, but Mrs Bradstreet wanted a somewhat broader selection.

“Do you have something with pearls?” she asked.

“Why, naturally,” Mr Cavendish put the first brooch back to its place and selected another two.

One of them was slightly bigger than the first offering: an enchanting fifteen carat gold, amethyst seed pearl brooch, whose gemstones contrasted and complemented each other beautifully. This, too, was set with an oval amethyst, but additionally with twelve silky seed pearls encircling it, a delicate rope detailing and a scallop ending. It was truly exquisite, but the price made Mary blanch… even if Holmes would have been the one to pay for it.

The third piece was a nine carat gold and seed pearl brooch, shaped like a rhombus, with delicate detailing: raised, textured and engraved work throughout, with a simple central seed pearl completing it. The brooch had a hinged safety back pin fitting to hold it securely. It also cost only a little more than half the price of the second brooch.

“This is beautiful,” said Mary, admiring the delicate little white and gold brooch. “I believe I should take this one.”

“You need not to look at the price,” murmured Mrs Bradstreet in a low voice. “You know Mr Holmes could afford anything that is on display here.”

“I know,” replied Mary. “I think, however, that this one fits me best. The others would be too fancy for me.”

“A good choice, madam,” praised Mr Cavendish. “A very good choice indeed. The brooch will compliment your colouring perfectly; just watch out for the admiring looks once you start wearing it.”

Mary blushed prettily and searched in her handbag for her purse, while Mr Cavendish placed the chosen brooch into its decorative velvet box. She then paid the price and the two ladies – one of them in disguise – left the jewellery shop.

“Well,” said Mrs Bradstreet, once they were out of earshot. “We have not found the source of Alice’s brooch; but at least we have found a nice one for _you_.”

“Only that it was not our true intent,” said Mary.

“We are not done yet,” replied Mrs Bradstreet encouragingly. “We are going to _Davies’s_ next, and then to _Morgan’s_ ; and if we have to, to any other shop that could be considered. First, though, let us have a nice cup of tea somewhere. We both need some sustenance, I would say.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At the same time, young Mr Jones was discretely following Miss Guppy from hotel to hotel, looking for any gentlemen matching the requirements of a rich and possibly nobly born lover of Miss Alice Spice.

They had already been to _The Black Swan, The King’s Head_ and _The Three Ravens_ – all excellent hotels, know for their discretion – but none of those enquiries had resulted in any new insights. Currently, Miss Guppy was selling the story of Mrs Holroyd’s (nonexistent) wayward cousin to the keeper of _The Sea Wanderer_ : another well-recommended and exclusive place, with her usual skill.

Apparently, the hotelkeeper had already worked in _The Sea Wanderer_ ten years previously, at that time still as the night porter. As a result he knew all the regular guests of the hotel, ten to fifteen years back; including their respective appetites and the pastimes they wanted to keep private.

As much as young Mr Jones disliked Miss Guppy – a fact that mainly rooted in his unwavering loyalty towards Colonel Holroyd – he had to admit that she was selling her story well. Of course, one had to expect a certain amount of acting talent from somebody who had spent her youth as a thief, but even considering her colourful past, Miss Guppy was really good.

The elderly hotelkeeper could no longer resist those falsely innocent, wide blue eyes, those trembling rosebud lips than a snowball could have resisted melting when placed on a hot oven top. Mrs Holroyd’s name – and her reputation as a passionate saviour of lost souls – did the rest. Miss Guppy had barely finished her heart-breaking story when a bellboy was sent to the archive chamber where the old hotel books were being kept to fetch the tome from 1879.

Neither the hotelkeeper nor the cautiously triumphant Miss Guppy noticed that the bellboy returning with the dusty old book was a different one than that which had been sent. Or that the dusty old book was far less, well… _dusty_ than it could have been expected from a tome that had not been touched for ten years.

An oversight that could have been forgiven coming from an elderly man that had seen too many faces during his decades working in a hotel and for whom all young faces looked increasingly alike. It was, however, a serious mistake from somebody like Miss Guppy. She had clearly grown careless under the patronage of Mrs Holroyd. Should she have to fend for herself one day again, _that_ could serve for her disadvantage.

Removing his wire-rimmed glasses and fake goatee, young Mr Jones swore to himself that he would never make the same mistake.

All things considered, he was satisfied with the results of his mission. Unlike Miss Guppy, he did not get the chance to copy the names of the hotel guests from August 1879, but fortunately, he didn't need to do so. He had been blessed with an excellent memory, especially about things he saw in written form. A quick yet thorough look at the important pages enabled him to remember the names written on those pages for a long time, unless he consciously chose to forget them.

Which he would do, as soon as the investigation was over. Young Mr Jones was nothing if not discreet.

He also had a definite advantage over Miss Guppy: one of the names actually _did_ tell him something. Serving Colonel Holroyd all those years had made him familiar with the peerage of the realm.

Eager to share the news with his master, he slipped out through the servants’ entrance of the hotel and caught a hansom cab to reach the Holroyd residence before Miss Guppy. Colonel Holroyd liked to be the first to be informed.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Meanwhile Mrs Bradstreet and Mrs Watson had reached the jewellery workshop of _Davies’s_ and were now pretending to admire the various mourning brooches displayed in the exhibition room. Those weren’t exactly the sort of jewellery they were looking for, but doing so made it easier to encourage the jeweller to become more talkative.

Mr Davies might have been less fancy than Mr Cavendish had been – he was also a decade or more younger – but he had the same keen eye for a potential customer’s financial means. Therefore he started his offerings with the less expensive pieces.

“This one would look stunning when worn,” he took out a brooch set in nine carat yellow gold, in a fancy scroll design. Underneath, the viewing glass was filled with a lock of brown hair.

“The hair can be exchanged, of course,” added Mr Davies as an afterthought.

“That would not be necessary,” said Mary, her chest tightening with decades-old pain. “I do not have even as much as a lock of hair left from my late father.”

“Oh, if you want to wear it in the memory of a man, then perhaps this antique piece would be more fitting,” Mr Davies picked up a brooch made from some yellow metal (that, however, did not look like gold) and adorned with striking black and white enamel. The viewing glass was filled with expertly plaited blond hair, bound in a small ring.

“No,” said Mrs Bradstreet. “This is almost five inches long; way too large and clumsy for a delicate person like my cousin. She needs something more feminine; something with pearls perhaps.”

Mary laughed. “What is it with you and pearls? You keep suggesting them for any possible occasion.”

“Pearls seem fitting for you,” replied Mrs Bradstreet with a shrug.

“In that case perhaps this one would be more to your liking,” Mr Davies showed them a brooch whose rectangular middle piece was framed by twenty-two seed pearls, set in gold. Inside, it was filled with un-plaited blond hair with a single open knot. The whole thing was barely an inch long, in a gently curved shape, the craftsmanship truly amazing.

“The price is somewhat higher, I fear,” said Mr Davies apologetically. “It was the masterpiece of my head craftsman and accordingly valuable. But it is worth every single penny.”

“Indeed it is,” agreed Susan Bradstreet; when Mary tried to protest – she had already bought _one_ fairly expensive brooch, after all, and not with her own money, either – she silenced the younger woman with a stern glance. “Quiet, cousin. This is my gift to you.”

She fished out her own purse. “Please have it gift-wrapped, Mr Davies.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“I really cannot accept this, Mrs Bradstreet,” protested Mary, after having left _Davies’s_ , while they were strolled leisurely down the street towards _Morgan’s_ , their last hope of finding the source of the Anderson brooch.

“Yes, you can; and you will,” replied Susan Bradstreet in a tone that brooked no argument. “I can easily afford it; and I owe the three of you for making this investigation possible in the first place. Neither Mr Holmes nor your husband would accept a gift from a woman; but you can. So please, be reasonable and accept it.”

“Why are you so interested in this case?” asked Mary in surprise. “Was Miss Spice a close friend of yours?”

“No; I never actually met her,” answered Mrs Bradstreet. “Dr Sawyer was the only one of us who knew her; and not even she did particularly like her.”

“Then why…” trailed off Mary expectantly.

“Because of James,” explained Susan Bradstreet. “He is very much like Mr Holmes when he stumbles over a mystery, even a minor one. He desperately wanted to solve this one, but Emily’s husband did not want the police to be involved. He said they had more than enough urgent cases.”

“Colonel Holroyd is a man of strong principles,” said Mary.

“Susan Bradstreet pulled a face. “That is one way to phrase it. In any case, James is happy to work on this case; and to work with Mr Holmes once again. And when James is happy, my life is a great deal easier.”

 _That_ was something Mary could understand; Inspector Bradstreet seemed like a man of strong personality who could impress his mood on the entire household. So she stopped arguing, and they entered _Morgan’s_ in tentative agreement.

 _Morgan’s_ was another well-established jewellery shop; larger and less traditional than either _Cavendish’s_ or _Davies’s_ , and apparently no longer run by the original founder. Mr Jamison, the current owner, had begun his career as a simple craftsman before marrying the daughter of his master and eventually taking over the business from old Mr Morgan. 

The pieces of jewellery on display were of fine workmanship but as a rule simpler and of more moderate cost than in the previous two shops, so Mary hoped that here they would at least get some information about the Anderson brooch.

Not wanting to jump head first into the investigation – and thus alienate the jeweller – Mrs Bradstreet started off by examining one of the better pieces: a beautifully crafted gilt on silver mourning brooch with four round, cabochon cut turquoise stones and a rectangular viewing compartment displaying a lock of plaited brown hair.

“Is this what you were looking for, cousin?” she asked.

Mary shook her head. “No, I am not looking for a mourning brooch. Also, I would prefer something simpler… something like this.”

She pointed at an elaborate gold plated brooch with a single elongated golden stone. It was slim but at least four inches long.

Mrs Bradstreet shook her head. “Too large for you.”

“I know,” Mary sighed. “And not the stone I would choose for myself, either.”

Once again, she took out the photograph and showed it to Mr Jamison. “I saw this picture recently and decided that I would like a brooch like this. Can you show me something similar?”

“Oh, I do know this!” exclaimed Mr Jamison in unabashed delight. “I believe this is my own handiwork – or, at least identical with the brooch I made some ten years ago, although why would someone want to copy it, I cannot tell.”

“Are you certain about it?” asked Mrs Bradstreet sharply.

Mr Jamison shrugged. “As certain as one could be with only this blurred picture to judge by. I could tell without doubt if I saw the brooch itself; but even so, I am fairly sure that it is mine.”

“Was it custom-made then?” asked Mrs Bradstreet.

“Oh, no, I was just experimenting with different gemstones and settings at the time. Then this odd chap came into the shop – it still was run by Mr Morgan then – saw it and wanted to buy it at once.”

“An odd chap?” echoed Mrs Bradstreet encouragingly.

The jeweller shrugged again. “He did not look like somebody who could truly afford our wares, to be blunt. But he had it delivered to _The Grand Hotel_ , so perhaps it was meant for someone else. Somebody who wanted to remain incognito. Gentlemen do that sometimes,” he added with a knowing smile at Mrs Bradstreet, whose disguise was obviously working perfectly.

“So you do not have a similar brooch in stock?” Mary clarified, still playing her part.

Mr Jamison shook his head. “I fear not, madam. The design did not prove successful. Those who could afford it found it too simple, not refined enough. And for customers with less refined tastes it would be too expensive. A real shame, though; I did find it quite pretty, myself.”

“Would you truly be able to identify it beyond doubt if your were shown it?” asked Mrs Bradstreet.

“Why of course!” replied Mr Jamison a little indignantly. “Even if I could not recognise my own handiwork, which I always do, there still would be the mark.”

“What mark?”

“I engrave a small mark – that of two intertwined rings – into every piece I make with my own hands,” explained Mr Jamison.

“That is fortunate,” said Mrs Bradstreet. “You may be asked to pay a visit Police Station House Three, to take a look at a certain brooch and confirm if it is, indeed, the same one you have sold ten years ago.”

The jeweller glared at them suspiciously. “Are you from the police?”

“No,” answered Mrs Bradstreet truthfully. “We were just asked to find the source of the brooch… discretely. If you can identify it, the family of your customer can claim it.”

“What happened to the chap who bought it?” asked Mr Jamison.

Mrs Bradstreet shrugged. “At this time, we do not know. He went missing ten years ago, right after he had bought the brooch from you. It showed up only a short time ago at the Lost Luggage Office with his other things.”

“I shall go to the Station House,” promised Mr Jamison. “It is only fair that the family should get the brooch; the man paid for it honestly, after all.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Do you think Anderson’s family can truly get the brooch back?” asked Mary.

They had returned to _The Grand Hotel_ , for Mary was exhausted (though happy and excited) from their little excursion to the Quarter, and were now having tea. Mrs Bradstreet was still wearing her Basil Blake disguise.

“If Mr Jamison can identify it beyond doubt, then I see no problems,” she answered. “Anderson has clearly bought the piece honestly. The dead man James and the others dug out last night is presumably Alfred Philip Anderson, although the final identification has yet to be confirmed . But if he is truly dead, then all his honestly acquired belongings will go to his family,” she paused, looking at Mary with interest. “Do you know his family?”

“Not I; John does,” explained Mary. “Anderson’s younger sister, Betsy, is a trained nurse. For a while, John’s family employed her to accompany Harriet, my sister-in-law, on her journeys in Italy. I believe she was with her until Harriet married a few years ago.”

“And before that, she used to be Alice Spice’s maid,” murmured Mrs Bradstreet thoughtfully. “Which is how Alice and Anderson met in the first place.”

“That was hardly Betsy’s fault,” Mary felt the urge to defend the young nurse who had been Harriet Watson's guardian angel for years. “She is a good girl; not everyone would have held out with Harriet for such a long time.”

“I did not say that it was her fault,” replied Susan Bradstreet. “But based on her letter found with Alice’s things, she had known about the whole affair from the beginning. She likely encouraged them, too.”

“She probably did,” allowed Mary. “According to Harriet, she has always been a hopeless romantic. And I may not have known Alice Spice, but she apparently liked to read silly romances. So many of those books describe stormy love affairs between poor housemaids and dashing young gentlemen – or the other way round. They make young girl believe that things like that regularly happen in real life, too.”

“Sometimes they do,” Mrs Bradstreet reminded her.

Mary nodded. “Sometimes; but in most cases they end badly. I have seen such things often enough. And usually, it is the penniless party that pays the price.”

“It is only fair, then, for the family to get the brooch,” said Mrs Bradstreet. “Apart from its sentimental value, it does have a certain monetary worth, too.”

“I doubt they would sell it,” replied Mary. “It is the last thing of any value left from their brother and son. The rest that was found in Anderson’s suitcase is nothing two women could truly use. But the brooch – either Mrs Anderson or Betsy could wear it in Alfred’s memory.”

“Hardly what he had in mind when he bought it,” commented Mrs Bradstreet.

“True,” admitted Mary. “But it is probably just what _they_ need to move on.”

“Hopefully,” Mrs Bradstreet rose. “Well, I must go now. My marital duties call. Shall we see each other tomorrow?”

“You must be busy…”

“Nonsense. Let us meet at the _Café Royal_. Emily will invite Dr Sawyer, too, and the four of us will put together the individual pieces we have and make our own conclusions.”

Mary suppressed a sigh and politely accepted the invitation. As much as she had enjoyed this little adventure thus far, the pregnancy made her tire easily. In the heart of her hearts she longed for a little more peace and quiet.

At home. With John.

“Promise me something,” she said when her husband finally showed up. “Promise me that when this case is solved, we will lead a normal life for a while. At least until our child is born.”

“I was afraid you would say until he or she turns twenty,” laughed John.

Mary gave him a coy smile. “Now that you mention it… I could live with that, too.”


	10. A Peer of the Realm

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Philip Louis Adair is my creation. However, his entire family is ACD canon, taken from “The Empty House”.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 10 – A PEER OF TH E REALM**

It never came to pass, the ladies’ little get-together at the _Café Royal_ – well, at least, not on the following day, that is. Colonel Holroyd decided that they needed to share their newly acquired knowledge and invited everyone to his house for afternoon tea - including the Watsons and the Bradstreets.

Tea turned out to be a sumptuous affair, and for once the ladies and the gentlemen were sitting together in the drawing room to eat it. Mrs Holroyd presided over the event regally and seemed very much in her element. Unlike poor Mrs Watson, who didn’t even recognise some of the elaborate desserts, despite her past history as a governess in a wealthy house.

Fortunately, all attention was focused on her husband and Sherlock Holmes, who were explaining the results of the examination of Anderson’s body, with the occasional help of Dr Sawyer. Mary Watson was already familiar with the bare facts – John had told her everything they had figured out right after his return to _The Grand Hotel_ – but the other ladies were listening with rapt interest and asked lots of questions, which John dutifully answered.

“One half of the mystery seems to be solved,” summarised Inspector Bradstreet. “Clearly, we have found Anderson. We still know not what happened to Miss Spice, though.”

“Oh, I believe _we_ have a fairly good idea,” said Mrs Holroyd, exchanging a smug look with her protégée. “Does the name Philip Louis Adair appear familiar?”

“The Most Honourably Lord Adair,” murmured Holmes thoughtfully, while the Watsons gave him confused looks. “Although, technically, he couldn’t use the title just yet, even though he is the eldest son and heir of the Earl of Maynooth.”

“Who is currently Governor of one of the Australian colonies,” Colonel Holroyd nodded. “Yes, that is the one. I encountered him a few times in various London clubs… not a very pleasant gentleman. His only interests are horse-races, cards and women; and his father, the Earl, provides him the means to pursue those interests. I dread the day when he inherits his father’s title and wealth.”

“The Earl most likely wants to pacify his own conscience,” supplied Dr Sawyer. “His first wife, a French noblewoman, died when Philip Louis was eleven years old; it was quite a scandal when he remarried barely two years later. Even so, Philip Louis is considerably older than his half-siblings, Ronald and Hilda, of whom the boy has always been the apple of their father’s eye.”

“Philip Louis was sent to the family of his late mother at the age of fourteen and has mostly lived in France ever since,” added Mrs Holroyd. “He might be his father’s heir but they never got on, and he only occasionally visits England. The time when Alice Spice went missing and Anderson was murdered _was_ one of those occasions.”

“That might have been coincidence,” said Inspector Bradstreet. He didn’t look like someone who actually _believed_ that it had been a coincidence, but – like every good policeman – he insisted on considering all possibilities.

“Hardly,” replied Mrs Holroyd with a rather un-ladylike snort. “He wasn’t only in England, he was in _Birmingham_. He stayed in _The Sea Wanderer_ and left on the day after Miss Spice’s disappearance.”

Everyone but Colonel Holroyd gasped at that piece of new information; he merely winked at his manservant who was standing in the background. Even Holmes appeared impressed.

“Do you have any proof of this, madam?” he asked.

Mrs Holroyd produced a hand-written list of names, on which that of Philip Louis Adair was underlined with red.

“My maid Alice copied these names from the guest book of _The Sea Wanderer_ ,” she explained. “These are all the bachelor gentlemen who stayed in the hotel in August 1879.”

“And you believe that Miss Spice had a secret affair with Philip Louis?” her husband asked doubtfully. “She might have been a pretty girl with a generous inheritance, but certainly not the kind of woman who would be accepted by the peerage.”

She nodded, certain in her knowledge. “I have been asking around discreetly. The other gentlemen on this list are either too old or of a social class Miss Spice would have considered beneath her; especially after her disastrous marriage. She wouldn’t have made the same mistake twice.”

“It would also explain the secrecy,” said Dr Sawyer. “As the future Earl of Maynooth, Philip Louis could not admit an affair to a still married woman.”

“Or to a divorced one,” Holmes added. “Therefore, they decided to get rid of Anderson. Miss Spice lured him to Birmingham, pretending to want to repair their marriage. Anderson believed her; but instead he got the torn-up marriage contract thrown into his face. Then an associate of Philip Louis shot him and made away with his body.”

“It still doesn’t explain the two pieces of luggage left at _New Street Station_ , though,” said Inspector Bradstreet.

Holmes waved his hand dismissively. “Oh, those were meant as a distraction. No-one expected them to be put in the Lost Luggage department, where they were forgotten.”

“That sounds convincing,” allowed Colonel Holroyd. “But where is Miss Spice now?”

“There is one way she could be safe,” Holmes turned to Mrs Holroyd. “You said that Philip Louis has lived in France most of his life, right?”

She nodded. “His mother’s family has considerable wealth in lands and houses there.”

“And Mr Spice’s parlour-maid told you that Miss Spice met someone in _Paris_ , didn’t she?” Holmes asked Mary Watson.

“Yes, but she could not tell who that man was,” replied Mary. “Only that Miss Spice seemed very happy.”

“Irrelevant,” said Holmes. “It _had_ to be Philip Louis Adair, in the light of what we have just learned. They had a torrid affair, which a future Earl obviously could not afford, given the marital status of his _maitresse_. So he took her with him to France – either to Paris or to some country estate of his mother’s family – and that is where Miss Spice has been for the last ten years.”

“But why did they have to murder Anderson?” asked Dr Watson. “Couldn’t they just, I don’t know, elope to France anyway?”

“I believe the meeting in Birmingham was some kind of test,” answered Holmes. “Had he been uninterested in repairing the marriage, they might have let him remain alive. But since he very obviously wanted Alice back, he wouldn’t have ceased to search for her. And _that_ Philip Louis could not allow. He might have actually found her.”

“So, in your opinion, Miss Spice is alive and living under a false name in France?” asked Inspector Bradstreet.

Holmes nodded. “That is the only logical solution.”

“I could buy it,” said Colonel Holroyd after a lengthy silence. “There is only one problem with your theory, Mr Holmes: How are we going to prove it?”

“We can begin in the cemetery,” replied Holmes. “Anderson’s body was hidden in the grave of a certain Miss Jacqueline Colbert.”

“Which is important… why exactly?” asked Colonel Holroyd.

But his wife already knew the answer. “Because the maternal grandmother of Philip Louis Adair was a Colbert, too.”

 _This_ was news for everyone.

“That explains the choice of the hiding place,” said the colonel slowly. “But that raises the question again: how do we prove it?”

“ _Somebody_ had to help with hiding the body,” suggested the inspector. “We must try to find the people who used to help out in the cemetery ten years ago. Not the regular grave-diggers, just the casual helpers. It is a thin thread, I know, but currently the only one we can follow.”

“The cemetery Superintendent must still have the loan books where they registered the payments,” suggested Holmes.

Inspector Bradstreet nodded. “I will speak with him; and I will send Constable Davies to talk to the grave-diggers. He is very good with people.”

“We need somebody in France, too,” pointed out Colonel Holroyd. “I do not question the deductions of Mr Holmes, but if we could find a woman of matching looks and age living in the Colbert house in Paris, or on one of the Colbert estates, it would be helpful in proving his theory.”

“It is _not_ a theory,” said Holmes indignantly. “It is a logical conclusion of all known facts.

“I am sure it is,” the colonel’s voice was dripping with sarcasm. “It still needs to be proved.”

“And then what?” asked Dr Watson. “Neither you nor the inspector have jurisdiction in France. Besides, living under an alias is not a crime. And Miss Spice was not the one who shot her husband; of that I am fairly certain.”

“’Cause she was young and pretty?” the inspector shook his head. “You are a helpless romantic, Doctor.”

“No,” corrected Holmes in his friend’s stead. “Because she did not _need_ to do it herself. And neither did Philip Louis Adair; he would never get his hands dirty with murdering somebody like Anderson. In a moment of blind rage – perhaps. But not in such a cold, pre-meditated manner. For this he would use somebody who is accustomed to killing.”

“And who would that be?” inquired Mrs Holroyd, her eyes sparkling with excitement.

Holmes shrugged. “I do not know – not yet. But I shall find out. It is the actual murderer that we want; the one that we can have.”

“How so?” asked the colonel.

“Because once I have found him, Philip Louis Adair will not hesitate to sacrifice him; to make sure that he and Miss Spice will be safe,” said Holmes grimly.

The colonel shook his head. “I do not want to let them walk away from murder unscathed. Is there nothing we can do to convict them?”

“I fear not,” said Holmes. “What the two have _done_ is morally questionable but not against the law. We _know_ they were behind the murder, but there is no way to prove it. Even if we catch the murderer and he confesses everything, it would be his word against that of a future peer of the realm. Whom, do you think, the court will believe?”

He was right and they all knew it. As much as he hated that he would have to let Adair and Miss Spice get away with their hideous deed, Colonel Holroyd understood that catching the actual murderer was the best they could hope for.

“But how are we supposed to find the murderer?” he asked.

“Inspector Bradstreet can follow the cemetery thread,” replied Holmes. “It does not seem much, but it is very important. As for the French thread,” he unexpectedly turned to Dr Sawyer. “Doctor, would you like to accompany me in Paris?”

“ _Me_?” Dr Sawyer was very surprised; almost shocked. “Why me?”

“Because you are the one who actually _knew_ Miss Spice,” reminded her Holmes. “You would recognize her, even after ten years, would you not?”

“Perhaps,” the good doctor was still not convinced, but Mrs Holroyd nodded in agreement.

“Mr Holmes is right, Sarah; you are the only one who can insist on having tea with Miss Spice and chatting about old times. It would be hard to explain your presence, though,” she added, looking at Holmes. “You have become somewhat notorious in the recent years.”

The detective waved impatiently. “I shan’t be using my own name, of course. It is a good thing that my brother practically never leaves that club of his; most people are not even aware of his existence. Therefore I can use _his_ title and get away with it. He would not mind, as long as he does not have to go out and mingle with people himself.”

“His _title_?” echoed Dr Watson. “Your brother has a _title_?”

Holmes rolled his eyes. “My dear Watson, I have told you repeatedly that my ancestors were country squires, have I not? I rarely refer to it, as it would be more of a hindrance than any help in my area of work, but yes, my brother _is_ the Viscount of Sherringford; a title inherited through our mother’s line, together with the estate in Sussex. I am actually grateful for being a younger son and not burdened with obligations that come with a title, but I can play the part convincingly if my work requires doing so.”

“I am sure you can,” said Mrs Bradstreet, speaking up for the first time. “But Dr Sawyer cannot travel with you to Paris alone. That would cause mean-spirited talk, and she cannot afford _that_ in her position.”

“No, but I can take Miss Hooper with me,” suggested Dr. Sawyer. “She works with me in the morgue,” she added for Holmes and the Watsons,” and wants to become a pathologist like me.”

“And she is such a nervous wallflower that everyone will believe her to be your maid,” added Mrs Holroyd smugly.

Mrs Bradstreet frowned. “But would she be willing to do it?”

“Oh, sure,” Mrs Holroyd shrugged. “For a chance to visit Paris? She would never get that opportunity again. Besides, she adores Sarah; would do anything to help her.”

“That could work,” the colonel agreed. “Well; let us do this: we all go and investigate our respective threads. Then, once Dr Sawyer and Mr Holmes have returned from France, we shall meet in London and compare our results.”

“But why in London?” asked the inspector.

The colonel gave Mary Watson a blinding smile. “Because Mrs Watson probably won’t be able to travel far by then. And she deserves to be part of the solution, after all the help she has already provided. Besides, it will be easier for Mr Spice to join us in London; and _he_ would want to have answers, too.”

That was true beyond doubt; more so given the fat that Mr Spice was Holmes’s actual client, who came up for his and the Watsons’ expenses in Birmingham. Therefore the gentlemen agreed that this was the right thing to do, and the rest of the afternoon was spent with working out the practical details.

The ladies retreated to Mrs Holroyd’s private parlour and forged plans of their own. Naturally, Dr Sawyer had to promise to take copious notes during her investigation with the great detective, which she was then expected to share with the others. Mrs Holroyd intended to find out whether the Most Honourable Philip Louis Adair had come back to England lately and whether he was alone or with a female companion. The latter was considered rather unlikely, since Miss Spice’s main intention had been to vanish without a trace, but not entirely impossible.

Before leaving the Holroyd house, Mrs Bradstreet took Mary Watson to one side and handed her a small jewellery box as well as her calling card.

“Here it is, as we have agreed,” she said. “I shall write you, should the events here take an unexpected turn. I ask you to do the same.”

Mary promised that she would, although she suspected that she would be busy with more domestic issues in the near future – like giving birth and taking care of her baby. But she, too, was very curious about the outcome of their ten-year-old mystery, and she knew she had a better chance to learn the details (especially the scandalous ones) from Mrs Bradstreet and her friends than from her own husband.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
On the next day Sherlock Holmes and the Watsons took their leave from Mr Field and Miss Robinson. Well… the Watsons did. Holmes could not be bothered by such mundane things; not that anyone would have expected him to do so.

Before leaving for London, Mary made sure to take the time and speak to Miss Robinson in private, revealing her the fate of the man she had loved so much, the man by whom she had not been loved, merely used and then abandoned.

The poor woman was devastated, of course, but Mary hoped that now that she could no longer wait for Anderson’s return – unlikely as it had been from the very beginning – she might be able to move on and make something of her life. There were still a few good, decent men out there, looking for a loving wife. Her own John was the living proof of that.

Life returned to its old, comfortable pace after their return. Soon thereafter Holmes left for Paris with Dr Sawyer, but neither of the Watsons felt the least envious about that. Mary had never been to France and hoped that one day they could afford to go there; but she wanted it to be just the two of them (well, three, once the baby arrived). Just a family holiday, without mysteries, missing rich, spoiled girls and murderers.

For that to happen, though, they would have to lay a pretty penny to the side; not to mention the upcoming costs a new baby would cause. And thus, though Mary sometimes missed her husband and felt a little lonely in their small home, she understood why her John spent long hours in the practice and visiting his patients – longer hours even than he usually spent when assisting Holmes on a case. 

They needed the money, that was the honest truth. Neither of them wanted to touch Mary’s small inheritance or sell the pearls she had received from Mr Sholto – him of the guilty conscience and the shadowy character. _Those_ were for absolute emergencies only, and they both hoped they would never need to use them.

Thus Mary was fairly surprised when – a fortnight or so after their return – John asked her if she felt up to going out on Sunday afternoon.

“Where are we going?” she wanted to know before saying either aye or nay.

“Westminster,” answered her husband. “I must pay an overdue visit to Mrs Anderson. She needs to know what happened to her son.”

“ _Everything_ that happened?” asked Mary with a frown.

“Well, not _everything_ ,” said John. “Just that he had been murdered ten years ago and has finally been found. I do not believe we should burden her with the full truth.”

“No, I agree,” Mary nodded with emphasis. “The news would be bad enough for her; she truly does not need to know that the woman her son loved betrayed him and was in all likelihood in league with his murderer. It would break her heart.”

“So you are coming with me?” asked John.

She nodded. “Yes, I shall go with you. I have my own commission regarding the Andersons.”

“What commission?”

“Mrs Bradstreet has persuaded her husband that the brooch Anderson bought for Miss Spice is no longer needed as evidence. And since he bought it honestly, the family can have it back,” she opened her handbag and took out the small jewellery box. “She entrusted it to me, believing that we would be better suited to deliver it.”

“That was very thoughtful of her,” said John, a little surprised. Mrs Bradstreet did not strike him as an overly sentimental person.

“I asked,” admitted Mary with a bashful smile.

John looked at her with a whole new level of admiration. He had always known that Mary was more than just a doctor’s meek little wife – even though she appeared fairly content with the role, after having lived in the homes of strangers for almost two decades – but she still surprised him from time to time. Even though volunteering for such a sad duty, which required a great deal of tack and compassion, fit very well with her caring nature.

He cleared his throat. “You,” he declared, “are a jewel. I never knew how lonely I was before I met you.”

“You had Mr Holmes,” she pointed out reasonably. “I doubt that you had the _time_ to be lonely, with him chasing after criminals and you in his tow all the time.”

John laughed. “My dear, Sherlock Holmes is a truly extraordinary man, but not somebody who would sit at one’s bedside after a bad night full of nightmares. Nor is he particularly suited for long, leisurely walks or peaceful evenings at the fireplace. I admire him very much – always have and always will – but he is not the one I would turn to for comfort.” He smiled and kissed her hand. “Besides, you are a lot prettier.”

Mari batted his hand away, laughing. “Oh, come on! I am as big as a house!”

“And who says big houses can't be beautiful?” asked John rhetorically; then he became serious again. “If you please, I will call on the Andersons and make an appointment with them. Then we can go together and visit.”

“Do it,” Mary kissed him briefly on the cheek. “But hurry up. I have the feeling that this little one will not leave us time for social calls much longer.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apologies for the briefness of this chapter. This seemed a good place to stop.


	11. Visitations

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Philip Louis Adair is my creation. However, his entire family is ACD canon, taken from “The Empty House”. Inspector Lescaut is “played” by French actor Benôit Valles, Miss Spice by Georgia Moffett.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
CHAPTER 11 – VISITATIONS**

A mere week later John Watson was standing again in front of the modest, two-storey house at 64 Thatchbrook Road, helping his very pregnant wife climb the few stairs leading to the narrow front door. The house itself did not look any different than at the time of his previous visit, but somebody had clearly worked on cleaning up the two beds in the tiny front garden on either side of the short flight of stairs.

He wondered if the renewed hope had given either Mrs Anderson or Betsy the strength to do something about the sadly neglected air of their home. If so, the news he was about to bring, would tumble back them into grief and despair again.

He was grateful for Mary’s presence; more grateful than he could express. As a doctor, he was used to telling people bad news, but this… this was different. This not only required a womanly touch, this also required the understanding and compassion of someone who had known similar losses. And who would be better at comforting a grieving mother and sister than Mary Watson (née Morstan) who had already lost so much in her young life?

Once again, John used the plain brass ring to knock. This time, however, they did not have to wait long. Instead of the scatter-brained young maid from last time, it was Betsy Anderson who opened the door.

“Doctor Watson!” she exclaimed in delight. “And Mrs Watson, I presume?”

Mary nodded and smiled, and Betsy threw the door wide open.

“Come in, come in,” she urged them. “Mother is waiting for you in the drawing-room. We are both eager to hear what you have found out.”

The drawing-room of the Andersons was a small yet surprisingly classy place, Mary found, with a beautifully carved sideboard of dark, polished wood, a round, onyx-plated coffee table surrounded by high-backed, overstuffed armchairs of the same wood as the sideboard and framed photographs on both the walls and the mantelpiece. If the beautiful tea service already waiting on the table was any indication, the family had known better days in the past.

Mrs Anderson, who rose from her seat hurriedly to greet them, was a statuesque woman in her early sixties, with barely any grey in her dark hair, which she wore in an elaborate knot on the nape of her neck. She was wearing a bell-shaped, dark blue dress – a model that had gone out of fashion some fifteen years previously, with the arrival of the bustle and the different cut it had brought, but must have been fashionable and expensive in its day – another sign that the family had been better off once.

They clearly were a bit old-fashioned in their customs, too… or at least Mrs Anderson was. She did not ask any questions until tea could be properly offered and accepted. Instead the little maid, Betsy served tea and biscuits herself, and Mrs Anderson poured for them all with her own hands.

“Well, Doctor Watson,” she then said when tradition had been properly honoured. “I assume you have news for us.”

John sighed and nodded. “I do, Mrs Anderson. I fear, though, that my tidings aren’t good ones.”

Mrs Anderson blanched but kept her self-control admirably.

“He is dead then, isn’t he?” she asked. There was no surprise in her tone, just weary resignation. She’d had enough time to get used to the thought, after all. “My dear, beloved boy is dead.”

“He is,” John knew that beating around the bush would only make things more painful. “Has been for the last ten years, in fact. Mrs Anderson, I am so very sorry.”

The old lady just nodded and sat there without a word for a good ten minutes before the tears began to fall. At that Mary pushed herself up and waddled over to her, to take her in her arms and let her cry silently. There was very little anyone could have said in a situation like this, so Mary chose to provide mute support.

Betsy looked at John with dry, pained eyes. 

“We have feared it, of course,” she said. “But suspecting it and _knowing_ it are two different cups of tea. Are you absolutely certain about it, Doctor Watson?”

John nodded. “I am afraid so. The body of your brother has been found in the grave of an old woman who’d been buried in Birmingham ten years ago. He was hidden there at the same time.”

“Hidden,” Betsy closed her eyes for a moment. She did not seem surprised; not the least.

“That heartless rich brat,” she then said. “It _was_ Alice, wasn’t she? First she wouldn’t leave him alone, seeking him out again and again, teasing him and playing with him; then she realised that she couldn’t live without her father’s money – and then she got rid of him, so that she would be able to marry somebody rich and powerful, didn’t she?”

“Holmes and the Birmingham Police are still working out the details,” answered John truthfully. “They still haven’t found Miss Spice – assuming she is still alive – and we certainly don’t know about a second marriage.”

“Oh, I have no doubt that she is alive,” said Betsy bitterly. “She always knew how to get what she wanted… without having to make any effort herself. I’m quite certain that she had a hand in my brother’s death.”

“Not literally; not unless she can fire a revolver or a rifle with frightening accuracy,” said John.

“She could not; not at the time I knew her,” replied Betsy. “I rather suspect that she had somebody else do the dirty work for her,” she buried her face in her hands. “I admit that Alfred was not perfect. He was a drinker, occasionally; and when he was drinking, he could be more than a little rough. I do not blame Alice for divorcing him – it showed early enough that it could not work between them. But it did not entitle her to have him murdered.”

“No, it did not,” John agreed.

“Can you prove it?” asked Betsy. “I am not a vengeful person, but if she did have a hand in Alfred’s death, she should _not_ get away unscathed.”

“I doubt it,” confessed John. “Holmes is looking for her in France, but even if he can find her, it would be near-impossible to find hard proof for her involvement. The most we can hope for is to find the actual murderer, and even that will be hard after ten years.”

“So they _will_ get away with murder; all those who were involved,” said Betsy in a hollow voice.

John shrugged apologetically. “That is most likely, yes. Unless Holmes does find something in France to frame them. If anyone could, he might. But we can’t be certain.”

“And neither can you guarantee it,” said Betsy. It clearly was _not_ a question but John nodded nevertheless.

“No, I am afraid not. Holmes is the best detective there is; but even he can’t find evidence if there is none.”

“You mean if somebody is rich enough to pay for the removal of any evidence,” commented Betsy bitterly. “Which Mr Spice certainly is.”

“In theory, yes,” John agreed. “However, he hasn’t heard a thing about his daughter during the last ten years, either.”

“So says he,” Betsy was clearly not easily convinced.

“And I believe him,” Mary intervened gently. “Why else would he have hired Mr Holmes to find her? Everyone knows how very good Mr Holmes is at that which he does; and that he cannot be whistled back when the evidence he finds would prove uncomfortable for the client.”

“Perhaps,” allowed Betsy reluctantly. “What happens to Alfred’s body now? We don’t have the money to have it brought to London, as much as it pains me to admit. We can’t even have sent his belongings home yet.”

“The Birmingham police – or more accurately Colonel Holroyd – has arranged for the suitcase to be sent to your address,” replied John, not adding the fact that it had been him who had persuaded the Chief Constable to do so. “They no longer need it as evidence, so we were allowed to bring at least a small item found among your brother’s things with us in advance.”

He took out the small jewellery box, opened it and handed it to Mrs Anderson.

“This was the last thing your son purchased, right before his death,” he added. “We thought you would like to keep it.”

The old lady examined the brooch without actually touching it and her tears began to fall again.

“He bought this for that horrible woman, didn’t he?” she cried. “He wanted her back and did his best to win her affections again!”

John nodded wordlessly. At that, the old lady handed the box back to John.

“I do not want to do anything with it,” she declared tearfully.

“Perhaps you can re-sell it to a jeweller,” suggested Mary gently. “It was not cheap, and jewellery made in Birmingham is much sought after in London in these days, or so I was told. You may be able to give your son a decent funeral for the price. Unless _you_ want to keep it,” she added, looking at Betsy who shook her head decidedly.

“I would never keep something that was meant for Alice… I mean for Miss Spice,” she said. “There was a time I liked her well enough; life at Hawkhurst Old Place was good, and we understood each other just fine… until she became interested in Alfred. If she truly had a hand in Alfred’s death, though, it would be only fair that we used this… this _thing_ to give him a proper funeral. Do you agree, Mother?”

After a moment of hesitation Mrs Anderson nodded reluctantly. Betsy turned back to John.

“Doctor Watson, we are grateful for all you’ve done to find out what happened to my brother ten years ago. No-one else truly cared about him; of that I am quite certain. Would you do us the honour of attending his funeral, too – if Mrs Watson’s condition will allow it? It would mean us a great deal.”

John exchanged looks of agreement with his wife, and then he nodded. “I will if I can. You were a great help with Harriet; the least I can do is to provide some moral support in _your_ time of need.”

“And should you learn more about Alfred’s death…”

“I shall contact you immediately,” promised John.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
At roughly the same time, Sherlock Holmes, Dr Sarah Sawyer and Miss Molly Hooper were standing in the heart of post-Exposition Paris. More accurately, in front of _La Galerie des machines_ – an imposing product of creative engineering, specifically constructed for the fair that had just closed its gates in the previous week.

At one hundred and eleven metres, the huge pavilion made of glass and steel spanned the longest interior space in the world, using a system of hinged arches – like a series of bridge spans placed not end-to-end but parallel – made of steel.

“Actually, the pavilion has been made of iron, not constructed of steel,” corrected Holmes absently. “It is a popular misconception.”

Doctor Sawyer rolled her eyes tolerantly but refrained from commenting.

“A shame that we couldn’t get here a week or two earlier,” she said instead. “Imagine all the great artists, investors and other famous people we could have met: from Mr Gauguin and Mr Van Gogh through Miss Sanderson, the American soprano, to Mr Tesla and Mr Edison!”

“They say the Prince of Wales visited the fair, too, with Princess Alexandra,” added Miss Hoper dreamily. “I for my part would have loved to see Buffalo Bill’s Wild West show. Or the Negro Village – apparently, four hundred people were displayed there! Four hundred!”

Holmes gave them an exasperated glare – the same one he usually aimed at the police.

“Arriving during the Exposition, when millions of visitors were roaming the city from the Champ de Mars through the Trocadéro down to the Quai d’Orsay and the Invalides esplanade could have been counterproductive to our search,” he pointed out with forced patience. “We are not here to gawk at questionable attractions… or to swoon at the feet of so-called famous people. We are here for Alice Spice; and finding a single woman in a city of this magnitude is a hard enough task as it is. More so one who doesn’t _want_ to be found!”

“One would believe so, yes,” Dr Sawyer said slowly. “But apparently, one would be wrong.”

Following her look, Holmes discovered a young woman standing relatively close by, observing the coming and going of people around them with an expression of bored disdain. She was wearing a walking dress of pale lilac silk – clearly an expensive one that was made according the newest French fashion – with a matching purse and lacy umbrella. Her blonde hair was put up in an elaborate fashion to emphasize the long, graceful line of her neck. Her face was heart-shaped, with somewhat child-like features and wide, very blue eyes. Although in her late twenties, her mien was that of a spoiled, selfish child, with all the underlying cruelty such children displayed when denied whatever whim happened to catch their fancy.

At that moment Holmes was quite certain that the plan of having her uncomfortable ex-husband murdered came from Miss Spice. Oh, not the details – she was clearly not clever enough for such elaborate planning – but the idea itself most definitely.

“It is said that she has inherited her father’s selfish nature but not his merciless intelligence,” Dr Sawyer agreed when Homes voiced his opinion. “ _And_ she was used to always getting whatever she wanted,” she paused. “And now that we have found her – and rather unexpectedly, I would say – do you want me to approach her?”

“No,” Holmes shook his head. “She must not know that she has been found out. We shall follow her to see where she lives; then we will forge a plan how to set a trap for her as well as for her partner in crime.”

“But she might recognise me if I followed her,” Dr Sawyer pointed out. “And forgive me, Mr Holmes, but you are not the most unobtrusive person.”

“Not without proper disguise,” Holmes admitted; then he looked at Miss Hooper. “We shall send her. No-one will notice _her_.”

Dr Sawyer withstood the urge to slap the great detective – barely. Poor Miss Hooper suffered enough under her less than stunning looks already; the last thing she needed was a disparaging remark from an attractive, charismatic man.

The doctor decided to run interference before her companion would break down in tears.

“No need to by abusive, Mr Holmes,” she said sharply. “Less so when you expect a favour from somebody,” then she turned to Miss Hooper. “Mr Holmes is right, though. You are the only one of us who could do this. Do you think you _can_ do it? We depend on you.”

Miss Hooper smiled at her tremulously. “I… I’ll try, Doctor Sawyer.”

“Good,” the lady doctor gave her some money. “Here… in case you she would call a hansom. This way you won’t lose her.”

“Try to find out where she lives,” Holmes added. “She won’t be using her own name, but she will have to return home eventually. We shall meet you at the hotel around dinner time then.”

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“And what are _we_ supposed to do while Miss Hooper does the snooping for us?” Dr Sawyer asked when their ally had scurried off to follow Miss Spice.

“We are going to meet Inspector Lescaut from the _Sûreté_. Informally, of course,” Holmes replied. “Would that be a problem for you?”

Dr Sawyer gave him a surprised look. “No, why would it? My French is quite fluent; and I spend all my time with police officers at work. Where are we meeting the man?”

Holmes named a small café near the Champs-Élysées where Parisians of better social circles often met but it was still not so exclusive that a ranking police officer would be spotted and recognised for what he was. 

Not that Inspector Paul Lescaut would have stood out from a nobler environment, either. He was a distinguished, elegantly greying gentleman in his mid-forties, clad in the fashion of the upper middle class: in a dark frock coat with a decorative, double-breasted waistcoat, matching trousers and a narrow bow tie. A bowler hat and black shoes with higher heels than worn in England and narrow toes completed his refined appearance. That, and the gold chain of a fob watch threaded through the buttonhole of his waistcoat. He also carried a walking stick with an elaborate head that could well be used as a weapon, should the need arise.

His manners were every bit as refined as his looks. He kissed Dr Sawyer’s hand with flourish, declared himself charmed to make the acquaintance of such a lovely and obviously intelligent lady, treated them to coffee and _absinthe_ (the latter of which Holmes politely rejected – more politely than Dr Sawyer had heard him speak to _anyone_ ) and was more than willing to discuss the case with them. Unlike most Frenchmen, he spoke fairly good English with only a slight accent and preferred to do so, in case someone might be listening to their conversation.

“The infamous Lord Adair,” he said thoughtfully. “ _Oui_ , he is well known for his somewhat… excessive lifestyle and his questionable connections to the criminal elements of our city. Not that we could ever prove anything, of course. He is too shrewd and too careful for that.”

“But you know nothing about the woman he lives with?” asked Holmes.

Lescaut nodded. “He is often seen in the company of young ladies, all of them blonde and pretty,” he said. “Either he is exclusively interested in a certain type, or he is hiding the tree in the forest by displaying various women of the same colouring as his secret affair.”

“But where could he have hidden Alice for _ten years_?” wondered Dr Sawyer. “Someone ought to have noticed something!”

“Not if they live outside of Paris, where they have no contact with the other inhabitants,” replied Lescaut. “It is frequent practice among the old aristocracy – such as we still have – to avoid the _nouveau riche bourgeoisie_ , even if they live in the same _arrondissement_. They then come into Paris proper to meet their own kind.”

“But Alice doesn’t come from the true peerage,” pointed out Dr Sawyer. “She is the daughter of a rich industrialist; nothing more, nothing less. Very much part of the same _nouveau riche bourgeoisie_ that the peerage would avoid, according to you, Inspector.”

“Which is exactly why she would be able to remain hidden from her own social circles,” said Lescaut. “Especially if she lives under a false name.”

“She could be pretending that she’s a distant cousin on Lord Adair’s mother’s side,” mused Holmes. “As far as I know, that family is all but extinct by now. No-one would question the presence of a penniless younger cousin… a fairly distant one.”

Lescaut nodded. “True. And he would have the place to host such a cousin… in theory. Either in his family’s town house, or in the _Villa Helvétius_ that he has inherited from a cousin of his late mother.”

“The _Villa Helvétius_?” repeated Holmes. “Was that no the residence of Madame Anne-Catherine de Ligniville-Helvétius, at 59 rue do Auteuil, where she used to have her famous salons twice a week?”

“ _Mais oui, Monsieur_. The house has changed owners several times since Madame’s passing and sank back to obscurity when Auteuil returned to its country character and became, after a while, the property of the Colbert family.”

“From which Lord Adair’s late mother also came,” Holmes nodded. “Oh, things are beginning to make so much sense now!”

“You believe that Alice has lived in that house in all these years?” asked Dr Sawyer.

Holmes nodded again. “I am fairly certain that she has. That would be exactly the right place for her to hide in plain sight. Of course, we won’t have any evidence until Miss Hooper’s return,” he turned to Lescaut. “Inspector, would you be willing to have dinner with the three of us, say, at _L’Auberge du Mouton Blanc_? I imagine that would be an excellent vantage point for us, being only some ten houses away from the _Villa Helvétius_.”

Lescaut hesitated for a moment, but in the end he gave in.

“My wife is going to kill me for another ruined evening,” he said. “But this I have to see.”

However, his eyes lingered on Dr Sawyer in a manner that revealed (at least to the observant eyes of one Sherlock Holmes) that his decision had more to do with her potential presence at the dinner table than with the case itself.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“The good Inspector has taken a liking to you,” Holmes warned the lady doctor after Lescaut had left. “He is known to be a rather… insistent admirer, so be careful.”

“He is also married,” Dr Sawyer replied primly.

“That has never held him back; _or_ his wife, if gossip can be trusted,” said Holmes with a shrug. “It is also said that few women could ever withstand his charm; and those who did regretted later.”

“I do not have affairs with married men,” Dr Sawyer said coolly.

Holmes shrugged again. “It is your choice, of course. In either case, it matters little to me. I am not prone to spreading gossip; I merely _listen_ to it. I would not be equally certain when it comes to Miss Hooper, though; so, as I said… tread carefully.”

“ _Mister Holmes_ ,” she said, her voice practically arctic, “I would prefer if we did not follow this line of conversation. I do _not_ intend to have any illicit affair with Inspector Lescaut, even if he _were_ interested, which I doubt. So, could we just drop this unpleasant topic and continue to work on the case of Alice Spice?”

Holmes gave her a piercing stare, taking in her bloodless face, her elevated breathing and the way her entire body seemed to tremble with distress – not that anyone else would have noticed the _very_ subtle signs – and then he shrugged anew.

“As you wish, doctor. Let us return to our hotel, then, and wait for the news Miss Hooper will hopefully bring us.”


	12. Auteuil

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter hasn't been beta read yet. It will be replaced with the final version as soon as possible. Please, bear with me until then.  
> Philip Louis Adair is "played" by Rufus Sewell.

*** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *  
Chapter 12 – Auteuil**

When Miss Hooper returned, full of excitement about her investigation, they took a hansom to Auteuil – a tranquil and refined little village by the River Seine, as it turned out. At first sight one would not think that it had become home to some of the world's most fascinating and illustrious literary and stage personalities, from Molière and Jean Racine through Madeleine de Scudéry to Madame de Ligniville-Helvétius – whose former home now belonged to Philip Louis Adair – along with a mix of aristocrats and diplomats, the most popular among the latter being Benjamin Franklin. Nonetheless, this was the truth.

They had dinner at _L'Auberge du Mouton Blanc_ , one of the oldest restaurants in Paris – the one preferred by Molière and his compatriots. The inn had a pleasant atmosphere, with the portraits of this group of writers, progressive thinkers and famous personalities hanging on the walls, looking over the diners… not to mention excellent food.

Not that the latter would mean anything to Holmes – he rarely ate while working on a case – but Inspector Lescaut and the two ladies enjoyed themselves greatly. Even Miss Hooper loosened up enough to shed some of her almost painful shyness and going as far as adding her own opinions while reporting her observations.

According to her report, Miss Spice met a very stylish dressed gentleman – a very handsome one in his late thirties, she emphasized, blushing – and the two of them went to a rather pompous house on the Champs Élisées by carriage. When she mentioned the address, Lescaut nodded.

"The townhouse of the Colmar family; that of _Monsieur_ Adair's late mother. Your guess was right, _Monsieur_ Holmes."

" _Deduction_ ," said Holmes coldly. "I never guess. My methods are based on scientific facts and logic."

"If you say so, _Monsieur_ ," replied Lescaut with a shrug; then he turned back to Miss Hooper. "Have you found out anything else, _Mademoiselle_?"

She nodded. "Yes, sir. I pretended to be looking for work as a governess and asked some of the passers-by about the house and its inhabitants. I was told that the young lady is _Mademoiselle_ Minette de Ligniville, a distant cousin of Lord Adair, and that they never hire any personnel – they have brought some trusted servants from Australia and stick to them."

"He isn't _Lord_ Adair yet," commented Dr Sawyer in disdain. "Not as long as his father is still alive."

Miss Hooper shrugged. "Nonetheless, he apparently likes to be addressed that way. He is very popular among the upper social circles and the rich commons, too; not the least because of the excellent parties he gives. One of those will take place in his villa in Auteuil the day after tomorrow, in honour of some friends from Down-Below, or so they say. A great many artists have been invited, it seems."

"Interesting," said Holmes languidly. "Doctor Sawyer, would you like to visit that party with me? It could be… educational."

"Perhaps," she allowed. "But how do you attempt to get an invitation? I doubt they would accept people who simply walk in from the street."

"Of course not," agreed Holmes. "In the right disguise and with a trifle of acting talent, however, it should be doable – if you are willing."

Sarah Sawyer hesitated for a moment; then she shrugged. "Why not? I must admit that I'm curious."

"Excellent!" Holmes clapped his hands. "Let's work out our strategy, then. I'm sure Inspector Lescaut will have useful insights for us."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
"So, how exactly are you planning to get an invitation?" Inquired Dr Sawyer later in the evening when they were among themselves again. Holmes shrugged.

"Philip Louis Adair is not the only one with family connections in Paris," he explained. "My mother's family, the Vernets, is reasonably well-known in artistic circles. I'll use that fact to get into the house, under the name of Guillaume Vernet."

"Who is that?"

"Me, actually. Guillaume, as you know, is the French version of William, and Vernet is one of my middle names, in honour of Mother's family."

"What about me, though?" Dr Sawyer asked. "Miss Spice will undoubtedly recognise my name. We were not close, but we were well acquainted."

"We shan't tell them your name," replied Holmes. " _Monsieur Vernet and company_ is an accepted phrase in such circles."

"Except that I'm my own person and not an extension of you," she reminded him a little coldly. Holmes nodded.

"True; but we don't want to alert Miss Spice to your presence in advance."

"She will recognise me anyway," she pointed out. "Just as I've recognised her."

"Perhaps; but by then it wouldn't count."

"Why not?"

"Because by then the surprise effect will have worked to our advantage," explained Holmes.

Dr Sawyer frowned. "In what way? You are _not_ the police; and even if you were, you had no jurisdiction in France."

"True again; however, I'm not planning anything so mundane as arresting the Most Honourable Mr Adair."

"You are not? What are you planning then?"

"I intend to reveal the fact that he's living with a divorced woman, whose former husband he had murdered, in front of the entire gathering. A scandal like that will make him unsuitable for the high society in Paris; he'll have no other choice than leave France. And once he sets foot on British soil again, even our incompetent police will be able to arrest him."

"He is a peer of the realm; or he _will_ be one day," reminded him Dr Sawyer. "I seriously doubt that he would get as much as a trial."

"Perhaps not," allowed Holmes. "But he won't be able to show his face in England ever again; and at least both Mr Spice and the Anderson family will have some closure."

"Does this mean that Alice won't have to face any consequences?" Dr Sawyer asked.

"What for?" replied Holmes with a shrug. "She might have been the driving force behind the murder; but the meticulous planning and the execution was clearly Mr Adair's work – even if he wasn't the one to actually pull the trigger."

"You believe he wasn't?"

"I'm fairly certain about that. A man in Mr Adair's position would know quite a few people – most likely former soldiers – who would do the dirty work for them… and never be seen in his company. Not publicly."

"Do you have an actual suspect?"

"Not yet; but I asked Watson to sniff around the clubs Mr Adair used to frequent ten years ago. Perhaps the membership lists will reveal a connection."

"But will those clubs show Doctor Watson the lists?" asked Dr Sawyer doubtfully. "He is not exactly a potential member, is he?"

"No," Holmes agreed. "But I also asked my brother to ease his way in. Few people dare to say _no_ when Mycroft Holmes makes a request."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
Two days later a carriage pulled up in front of the _Villa Helvétius_ at #59 rue d'Auteuil, and out climbed Sherlock Holmes, wearing a dark tail coat with full trousers and a dark waistcoat, a top hat and an Ascot tie to his dress shirt. The tie was made up as a neckband with wide wings attached and fastened with a stickpin. His dress shoes, according to the newest fashion, were higher in the heel and narrow in the toe. Velvet gloves and an elegant walking stick completed his fashionable ensemble.

He extended his hand politely to help Dr Sawyer down the three rather high metal steps of the carriage, as she was wearing a sleeveless, low-necked evening gown with long, over the elbow suede gloves and a fine cashmere shawl wrapped around her shoulders against the chilly evening. Her hair was pulled up in a loose bun, with a long, curly lock falling to her chest on each side of her face.

The two made a charming couple together, as Inspector Lescaut, who had used his own connections to get an invitation, commented. Dr Sawyer blushed slightly; Holmes, of course, remained completely indifferent to the compliment.

"The house gives no indication of splendour," he said instead. "Nothing one would expect from the destined residence of a man like Philip Louis Adair."

Lescaut shrugged. "It's said this simplicity is according to the will of _Monsieur_ Adair, who positively ordered nothing to be altered outside. From our vantage point the house still looks as it did when _Madame_ Helvétius bought the three-acre property at Number 59 after she was widowed. It already had a long history by then."

"I heard about it," Holmes nodded; then, turning to Dr Sawyer, he added as an explanation. "The previous owner was none other than Maurice Quentin de la Tour, the famous rococo court portraitist."

"Indeed," said Lescaut. "As you'll see, the splendour is all within."

And indeed, as soon as the front door opened to allow them to enter, the scene changed.

They came into a spacious court, which was planted with poplars, large spreading sycamores to shade the different parts of the house. In the foreground, it was paved with flat white stones, half hidden by the grass that was gradually turning yellow as the autumn progressed.

Servants passed gaily along the fine courtyard; some, belonging to the kitchens, gliding down the stairs; others filling the coach-houses, where the equipages were installed. In the stables the horses replied with neighs to the grooms, who spoke to them with obvious respect and love. Philip Louis Adair clearly had expensive tastes and ran a grand house.

They were welcomed in the middle of the court by a neatly dressed gentleman of around forty or so: the butler of _Monsieur_ Adair, whose name was apparently Baptiste, although he spoke English with a well-recognisable Australian accent as he asked them for their invitation.

" _Monsieur_ Vernet and company," said Holmes handing the invitation to the butler negligently.

Baptiste gave Dr Sawyer a gallant half-bow. " _Enchanté, Madame_. If you would follow me…"

Ignoring Inspector Lescaut completely, he led them inside, the elegantly dressed policeman trailing after them unchallenged.

They were led to the conservatory, which was situated in the right wing of the house – opposite the library that occupied the ground floor of the entire left wing, Baptiste mentioned – and was decorated with rare flowers that bloomed in large, ancient china jars. There were beautifully crafted little tables placed between the large front windows, heavily laden with all kinds of delicacies, while in the farthest corner a billiard stable stood, at which a small group of guests was already playing. The master of the house stood in the middle of the spacious room, entertaining his other guests.

Philip Louis Adair was an imposing man in his late thirties, who reportedly liked to make as close an impression of Lord Byron as possible; both in his looks and his lifestyle. Not the part where politics were concerned (much to his father's grief who had once hoped that his firstborn would follow him in the Australian governor's office), nor did he have any artistic talent worth mentioning. He _did_ follow the lead of his idol in the excesses and scandalous love affairs, though, or so it was said.

Which was part of the reason why the guests invited to his party didn't come from the honourable circles of nobility but from the _bohéme_ , Lescaut explained: artists of all sorts, actresses, ballerinas and the likes. Which, in turn, explained how Holmes – related to the well-known family of French painters named Vernet – had managed to get an invitation… through mediators, most likely, Dr Sawyer thought.

It still didn't explain how Inspector Lescaut got one, but Dr Sawyer decided that the question wasn't worth dwelling on it. She was eager to meet their infamous host at least; to understand what Alice Spice saw in him that she would give up everything for him – including her wealth, her reputation (or what was left of it anyway) and a rich, doting father.

When they were finally standing face to face, she found him a man of contradictions. The unruly mop of dark curls and the wide, hazel-green eyes (so staring it was almost frightening but made oddly endearing by one drooping eyelid) could have belonged to somebody half his age. The smooth, even features with the killer cheekbones made him look ageless. That thin-lipped mouth, though, with the cruel little creases in its slightly asymmetrical corners, revealed him as a man who always got what he wanted, regardless of the consequences.

All that together, presented in a fashionable dinner jacket worn with a floral-patterned yellow silk necktie, made Dr Sawyer think that the man was a predator. A highly dangerous one. She was grateful to have both Mr Holmes and Inspector Lescaut on her side.

Noticing the new arrivals, Philip Louis Adair detached himself from the other guests and came to great them.

" _Monsieur_ Vernet, I'm told?" he asked in almost accent-free French. "Are you, by chance, related to _Monsieur_ Horace Vernet, the painter?"

"We were second cousins," Holmes's French was every bit as excellent as that of their hosts. "We didn't have much contact, though, as I live in London, most of the time."

"I see," Adair paused, switching to English; then he looked at Dr Sawyer with interest. "And _Madame_ …?"

"She is with me," interrupted Holmes in a somewhat cold manner, which revealed that he wasn't willing to discuss his companion's identity; at least not yet.

For a brief moment there was genuine anger flickering across their host's handsome face, but he quickly caught himself again.

"Tell me, _Monsieur_ Vernet, are you a painter himself?" he asked conversationally.

"Oh, no," said Holmes with a brief smile. "I'm more of a musician myself… and an amateur one at that. I play the violin with some skill but that's all, I'm afraid."

"Would you be willing to play for us tonight?" asked Adair. "It's something of a custom on these parties that some of my guests perform to entertain the others – and we haven't had a violinist among us for a long time."

"Why, certainly," replied Holmes. "I'm no Paganini, but I can play some Mendelssohn for you if you like – and if you can lend me an instrument. You'll understand that I don't carry my Stradivarius on my person while travelling."

" _Bien sûr, bien sûr_ ," said Adair. "Finding an instrument won't be a problem; and my guests will be delighted."

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
He proved to be right, in both aspects. The amazingly efficient Baptiste soon reappeared, carrying a beautiful violin – not a Stradivarius, granted, but an excellently made and well cared for instrument nonetheless – and the guests applauded enthusiastically at the prospect of an impromptu concert.

Which they got with very little delay. After having tested the state of his borrowed instrument, Holmes gave a stunning performance of Mendelssohn's _Songs Without Words_ , to the great delight of the gathering. He might have been just an amateur, as he had stated in advance, but he was beyond doubt a highly skilled one. Even Sarah Sawyer, who didn't have any particular interest in instrumental music – she was more of an opera aficionado – listened to him enchanted.

Until she felt a light touch on her forearm, that is.

Turning around, she found herself looking eye to eye with Alice Spice. Or rather Minette de Ligniville, as she was known in these days.

"Sarah?" she murmured in shocked surprise. "Is that really you? What are you doing here?"

"Looking for you, actually," replied Sarah truthfully.

Alice stared at her with wide eyes – like a frightened rabbit, in fact.

"But how…? People were supposed to think I've vanished…."

"And they did," assured her Sarah. "Until your trunk showed up again, after having stood in a dusty corner of the Lost Luggage office for a decade or so."

"It wasn't found back then?" asked Alice in surprise.

Sarah shrugged. "Oh, it was; but as no-one came to claim it, it was put into the Lost Luggage office and everyone forgot about it. Now that Mr Roberts retired and made full inventory for the new Superintendent of _New Street Station_ , it was found again – together with Alfred Anderson's suitcase."

At the mentioning of her murdered ex-husband Alice became deathly pale; in fact, she nearly fainted. It took her a moment to recover; then she took an anxious look around her.

"We must speak," she said, "but not here where others can see us. Come with me!"

Sarah, too, looked around, trying to catch Holmes's eye, who was still playing he violin. The detective gave her a barely perceptive nod, signalling his understanding, and Sarah reluctantly followed Alice Spice out of the conservatory. She wasn't easily frightened, but she knew that a person of weak character (as Alice was) could be dangerous when cornered. She only hoped that Holmes would be able to follow them to Alice's private rooms, where they were obviously heading.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
The boudoir of Alice was a small, octagonal-shaped room of refined taste and simple elegance, hung with lavender-coloured satin and white Indian muslin. The graceful little settees were of ancient workmanship and materials. Over the door were painted sketches of shepherds and shepherdesses in bucolic surroundings, and at each side pretty medallions in crayons, harmonising well with the furnishing of the charming apartment. There was even a piano standing in one of the corners, where the hypothetical player would get the best natural light: a most elaborate piece of cabinet and inlaid work.

There could be no doubt that Philip Louis Adair could offer Alice Spice the kind of luxurious living conditions she was used to from home. The one her low-born late husband could never have. In many aspects, he was a much better choice for a spoiled, rich girl; if one added his personal charisma, it was easily understood why Alice had been drawn to him like a moth to the flame in the first place.

It still didn't excuse the murdering of Alfred Anderson, though. _That_ had been a coldly calculated, merciless act; and while it clearly had been conceived in a mind much sharper than Alice could ever hope to match, Sarah was not about to speak her free of the responsibility for her ex-husband's death.

She decided to make her opinion very clear. The man – perhaps not the easiest of men to live with but certainly still madly in love with his ex-wife – was dead, his elderly mother had been left in painful doubt for a decade and Mr Spice had mourned the loss of his only child for just as long. It was high time for Alice to grow up and, at the very least, see the consequences of her selfish actions.

"You wanted to talk," said Sarah, more coldly than originally intended. "So, talk. What was this vanishing act you put up ten years ago? Why did you let your father grieve for you, without as much as a life sign, the shortest of messages?"

"I couldn't," murmured Alice. "He'd have found us… found _me_ in no time, and then everything would have happened in vain."

"You mean your husband would have been murdered for nothing?" clarified Sarah bluntly. When Alice attempted to faint, she pulled a face. "Don't bother. I'm a doctor, in case you've forgotten; I can tell when someone is faking a fainting spell; and _you_ are definitely faking it now."

Alice might be faking it indeed… but not by much.

"How do you know about Alfred?" she murmured faintly.

Sarah rolled her eyes. "You were right about your father? As soon as there was the slightest possibility that you may still be alive, he left no stone unturned to find you. He hired _Sherlock Holmes_ , for God's sake!"

"Whom?" Alice was clearly one of the very few people who hadn't heard that name before.

"The best private detective on the British Isles," explained Sarah grimly. "He found your husband's body within the week after taking the case. And at about the same time we figured out that you must have eloped with Philip Louis Adair."

" _We_?" repeated Alice, making a very convincing impression of a frightened rabbit.

Sarah shrugged. "Mr Holmes, Inspector Bradstreet, Doctor Watson – he helps Mr Holmes with his cases – and me, yes. Oh, and Emily, of course. You do remember Emily, I presume? She's married to the Chief Constable of Birmingham now which means she has ample influence."

"She always had," said Alice with a sour face. Emily had always intimidated her, although they had only ever casually met on social events. "But that still doesn't explain why are you here – and how did you get an invitation in the first place."

"I didn't; Mr Holmes did," replied Sarah. "He has distant relatives in the art scene; they smoothed his way in."

"Well, that explains it then," said the semi-familiar voice of Philip Louis Adair behind them; he had entered the boudoir through a back door that was cleverly concealed by the wallpaper. "I knew _Monsieur_ 'Vernet' seemed oddly familiar; though I must admit that his excellent skills with the violin fooled me for a moment."

He was speaking English now, his unusual eyes cold like those of a snake.

"There was no foolery involved," answered Sarah with a shrug. "Vernet is indeed one of his names; and he does play the violin quite well and frequently, I am told. He says it helps him think."

"I imagine it does," Adair's voice was casual, almost friendly, which made the whole situation all the more frightening. "And who are _you_ , if I may ask?"

"She's an old friend," said Alice hurriedly, as if trying to explain Sarah's presence; but Sarah had no illusions that it could work.

"No, I'm not," she corrected frankly. "We were causal acquaintances at best; and even that only because we happened to frequent _Almack's_ at the same time."

"Disarmingly honest," it was hard to tell whether Adair actually meant it or was just mocking her. "But it still doesn't answer my question: Who _are_ you?"

"Sarah Sawyer," she answered simply. " _Doctor_ Sarah Sawyer, that is. I am the police pathologist in Birmingham."

"I see," one of Adair's eyebrows rose in interest. "So you cut open dead people for a living? An… unusual occupation for a young lady of your social standing."

"But not entirely unpleasant," she riposted. "For one thing, dead people don't lie. When I cut them open, they reveal me their deepest secrets."

"Like what?" asked Adair, clearly amused.

Sarah stared directly in those unsettling eyes of his. "Like the fact that Alfred Anderson was cowardly killed with a soft-nosed bullet from considerable distance, forced into one of Alice's travelling trunks before the _rigor mortis_ could have set on and hidden in the grave of one of your distant relatives some ten years ago," she said coldly.

Adair didn't even blink at that. "Has he also told you who pulled the trigger?" he asked instead.

Sarah shrugged. "No; but neither of us really assumed that it had been _you_. You were most likely the cunning mind behind the plan; I doubt that even Mr Holmes would be able to prove your involvement. That doesn't make you any less guilty in Mr Anderson's death – or _you_ , for that matter," she turned to Alice. "I can hardly decide which one of you is the more despicable: the man who had another man murdered in cold blood, or the woman who condoned the murder of her husband, just so that she could become the murderer's shameful secret."

" _Filou_ is not ashamed of me!" protested Alice, and Sarah rolled her eyes upon hearing that silly nickname: a bastardised version of Philip Louis.

"You are fooling yourself," she replied. "If he weren't ashamed of you, he would acknowledge your relationship and marry you properly, instead of hiding you here under a false identity. You are his _maitresse_ , nothing else; I just cannot understand how you could have lived like this for the last ten years… unless you are one of those people who like being humiliated."

"That is quite enough, Doctor Sawyer," Adair interrupted them. "You are doubtlessly a highly intelligent woman, and I would congratulate you to your insights, even though the one or other has clearly been borrowed from Mr Holmes. However, I am certain you understand that I cannot allow you to leave my house and spout your… _theories_ everywhere."

"You'll hardly have any other choice," Sarah wasn't a fool; she knew her very life was in imminent danger. She also knew that she needed to buy some time; time for Holmes to find you. "Mr Holmes knows I've left the conservatory with Alice; and Inspector Lescaut, who is also present, has certainly been debriefed in the meantime."

Adair gave her a chilly smile. "Mr Holmes is properly occupied with the company I've sent his way; and Inspector Lescaut is… well, let me put it this way, easily distracted by womanly viles," he pulled a pistol from the inside of his dinner jacket and pointed it at Sarah. "I am truly sorry, my dear; you are an extraordinary woman, quite extraordinary. But I cannot afford to leave you alive. You simply know too much."

"She's not the only one," said a female voice in heavily accented English and a petite redhead in a stunning evening gown of black silk entered the room. Her shiny copper hair was put up in a beehive fashion, her black lace gloves reached well beyond her elbows – and she held a police issue pistol, such as used by the _Sûreté_ , in one gracile, glowed hand.

Adair clearly recognised her because he rolled his eyes in exasperation. " _Mademoiselle_ Genest, this is not one of your theatre productions. Kindly stay out of my private affairs."

"Actually," said the redhead, clearly some sort of actress or, more likely, a _comedienne_ , "the name is _Madame_ Lescaut. The Inspector and I have been married for sixteen years and have two lovely daughters. It has never been public knowledge, _bien sûr_ , for both our sakes."

"It was you, then, who smuggled him into my house?"

"There was no smuggling involved," the redhead shrugged her bare, ivory shoulders. "The invitation clearly said: _Mademoiselle Juliette Genest and company_. Juliette Genest just happens to be _Madame_ Julie Lescaut, _c'est ca_."

"With _company_ ," her husband added, walking through the same door Adair had used nonchalantly and held out a negligent hand for his police pistol. "If you don't mind, _mon amant_."

"Took you long enough," his wife replied, handing him the weapon. "Have you been… _distracted_?"

"Not in the manner _Monsieur_ Adair clearly intended to have me distracted," Lescaut aimed the pistol at their host. "It was merely… challenging to follow him along the side corridors without being caught. Now, Monsieur Adair, why don't you lower your weapon and allow Doctor Sawyer to come over to me?"

Adair made no attempts to do so. "Why should I?"

"Because in this city I represent the law, and what I say is supposed to happen," explained Lescaut as if he were talking to a particularly slow-witted child. "And because I won't hesitate to put a bullet between your eyes if you don't follow my instructions. That's why."

"You wouldn't dare!" said Adair arrogantly.

"Try me," replied Lescaut in a silky-dangerous voice.

For a moment Adair seemed to hesitate – but then madness overcame him. Madness about being caught after such a long time; madness about not being able to silence a witness; madness about being bested by somebody he considered beneath him. He was clearly not about to obey a mere police inspector.

In the next moment several things happened simultaneously. Adair fired at Sarah, but somebody roughly pushed him to the side, so that he missed. Lescaut fired at Adair, but he missed, too, for the same reason. And Alice Spice mutely sank to her knees, something red spreading slowly but steadily on the bodice of her evening gown.

"What happened?" asked _Madame_ Lescaut, a bit confused.

" _Monsieur_ Adair accidentally hit his _maitresse_ when I pushed him out of the way," replied Sherlock Holmes, now entering the boudoir fully. He had clearly been in a fight, sporting a split lip and a bloody nose; his knuckles were red and swollen, too. He looked at Sarah. "Doctor Sawyer, if you'd take a look…"

Sarah was already kneeling next to Alice, feeling for her carotid pulse… then she shook her head in regret.

"I'm sorry, Mr Holmes. The bullet went straight through her heart."

"No!" Adair fell to his knees on Alice's other side, hugging her still bleeding, dead body to himself in despair. "No, it cannot be! Alice! Alice, don't leave me!"

But Alice Spice was gone already, her broken eyes staring into empty air with the cold indifference only the dead can display. Howling in grief like a madman – or a wild beast – Adair snatched up his pistol again.

Holmes and Inspector Lescaut moved immediately to protect Sarah and _Madame_ Lescaut, but it was no longer necessary. Adair was not aiming at either of them. Instead, he put the muzzle of the pistol in his mouth and pulled the trigger, before anyone could have stopped him.

 _Madame_ Lescaut put both hands to her mouth and fled the boudoir. Sarah, having seen quite a few similar wounds when doing post-mortems on suicide victims, regarded the horrible sight with professional detachment – and with just a hint of regret.

"Well, we have learned the truth," she said slowly. "I wonder, though, if the price wasn't too high. Perhaps we should have left sleeping dogs lie."

"Mr Anderson's family might disagree," replied Holmes.

"Alice's death won't bring them Alfred back," pointed out Sarah with a shrug. "And for Mr Spice, there's no hope left. I wish I had never taken part in this investigation. Some mysteries should better remain unsolved."

If Holmes disagreed with her – which he most likely did – he gave no sign of it. Instead, he turned to Inspector Lescaut.

"Perhaps _Madame_ Lescaut would be willing to accompany Doctor Sawyer while we take care of the official part," he said. "There is no need for either of them to be present here; and they might find comfort in each other's company."

The Inspector nodded and went to find his wife.


	13. Epilogue

**EPILOGUE**

“What are we going to tell Mr Spice, then?” Emily Holroyd asked her closest friends, Sarah Sawyer and Susan Bradstreet.

They were having tea, just the three of them, without the other resolute ladies from their close-knit circle, with Doctor Sawyer playing host – for the simple reason that she had no husband to eavesdrop on them.

“The truth; what else could we tell him?” replied Susan Bradstreet. “The facts are known to the police; and besides, I doubt that Mr Holmes would be willing to lie to his client. It was Mr Spice who hired him to find Alice – following _your_ suggestion, may I point out,” she looked at Mrs Holroyd.

“I wish I hadn’t suggested it,” said Mrs Holroyd bitterly. “He was better off not knowing.”

“Perhaps; perhaps not,” said Mrs Bradstreet thoughtfully. “Some people prefer the truth, even if it is a bitter one. At leas Alice, whatever her part in Mr Anderson’s death might be, was happy with her second choice – or wasn’t she?” she looked at Doctor Sawyer askance.

The doctor nodded. “She seemed to be. I thought first that she would be just a plaything for Mr Adair; but I was apparently wrong. Even though I cannot truly understand what a man like Philip Louis Adair saw in her.”

“She was _his_ ,” reminded them Mrs Bradstreet. “And she clearly admired him. Men _like_ being admired; perhaps you should give it a try, my dear,” she added, with a sideways glance at Mrs Holroyd. “It could do wonders for your marriage.”

Mrs Holroyd made a very un-ladylike snort. “Do _you_ admire your husband?”

“Of course I do,” replied Mrs Bradstreet calmly. “James had many admirable traits; why else, do you think would I have married him in the first place?”

Which was very true. She had married below her social standing when she chose James Bradstreet; a choice she never regretted.

“Granted, he _is_ a bit narrow-minded when it comes to women,” she continued, “but then most men are. Even so, he is smart enough _not_ to cross me, which is another thing I admire in him.”

They laughed. Susan Bradstreet clearly was the one who called the shots in her house, but she discreetly reigned from the background and made sure never to embarrass her husband. This was a level of self-restraint Emily Holroyd could never quite find in herself, which led to frequent and spectacular fights between her and the colonel. Of course, _she_ hadn’t married beneath her social standing. Jacob was her equal – not to mention a battle-hardened soldier –, making it a lot harder to make him back off.

“Speaking of meek little wives who admire their husbands,” Doctor Sawyer said with a wink in Mrs Bradstreet’s direction, “have you heard from the Watsons? Mrs Watson should be due any time now.”

“Jacob got a wire from Doctor Watson,” told them Mrs Holroyd. “Apparently, they have a son – which led to a bit of uproar, as they were both sure it would be a girl and didn’t even think of boys’ names.”

“What did they name the boy in the end?” asked Doctor Sawyer.

Mrs Holroyd shrugged. “I don’t know; and, to be honest, I don’t particularly care, either. Now, Sarah, stop being Mother; sit down and tell us everything about your journey to France. I want details. _All_ details. I so envy you for having assisted Sherlock Holmes!”

“I for my part could have done without the dead bodies and nearly being killed,” replied Doctor Sawyer dryly. “The entire journey was much like my regular work – and I prefer my dead on the autopsy table, not in their own salon.”

But she did sit down, and she gave them a detailed report about her journey nonetheless. Few people were brave – or foolish – enough to deny Emily Holroyd what she wanted.

 *** * * * * * * * * * * * * * * ***  
“Do you believe Doctor Sawyer was much traumatised?” asked Mary Watson.

She was sitting in the tiny drawing-room of their house in Queen Anne Street, resting in her rocking chair after having fed baby Ian. She was still exhausted from having gone through a complicated birth and Ian crying through half the night.

Holmes looked at her in honest confusion. “Why should she? She works with dead bodies all the time!”

“None of which she had known personally before; or which had been killed in front of her eyes; or tried to kill _her_ before killing himself,” pointed out Doctor Watson. “ _One_ of those things can traumatise a person; all three together would be downright shocking.”

“Oh, I believe Doctor Sawyer is more resilient than you give her credit for,” replied Holmes dismissively.

Doctor Watson raised an eyebrow. “Is that so? Would you care to elaborate? What exactly did happen in Paris?”

The great detective, however, shook his head. “Some details are not mine to tell. But she did show impressive courage and calm in the face of a death threat; not many women would be able to do that. Or men, for that matter.”

“So, is the case closed now?” asked Mary. “Have you found out who has committed the actual murder ten years ago?”

Holmes shook his head again. “No; and since both Mr Adair and Miss Spice are dead, we don’t have many trails to follow – save that of the hypothetical weapon.”

“You aren’t giving up, though,” said Doctor Watson. It clearly wasn’t a question; it still earned him a raised Holmesian eyebrow.

“Obviously not. There are but a handful of weapon makers who can build a rifle with the specifications you described upon examining Mr Anderson’s body. I shall contact every single one of them. I shall find the murderer, no matter how many years it may take.”

“That will be little consolation for Mr Spice… _or_ for the Anderson family,” commented Mary Watson softly. “Mrs Anderson might see the recent tragedy as divine justice, but Mr Spice… was he very angry with you?”

“He was… not pleased,” admitted Holmes. “But then, neither was I. This was a highly unsatisfying case for all parties involved; one that will haunt us all for a long time yet,” he rose. “Well, I must go. I have another client to meet within the hour.”

He took his coat and his hat from the Watsons’ maid and left in a moderate pace. Mary Watson looked at her husband with a faint smile.

“Not to disagree with Mr Holmes on principle, John, but I for my part was more than satisfied with the case,” she said. “I got to see how the two of you work on a case, I got to stay in _The Grand Hotel_ , I got to visit the _Jeweller’s Quarter_ and I met a couple of extraordinary ladies. It was the most excitement I had ever since Mr Holmes solved the mystery surrounding my father’s death.”

“Enough excitement for the foreseeable future?” asked Doctor Watson teasingly.

His wife laughed. “More than enough; especially now that Ian will keep me busy for a while. Speaking of which; have you thought about whom we should ask to be Ian’s godfather and godmother?”

“I was thinking of Doctor Stamford for godfather,” said John slowly. “He has been a good friend for a long time; without him I would never have met Holmes, and without Holmes I would never have met _you_. I owe him a great deal. As for godmother – I really have no idea. We don’t have that many lady friends.”

“What about Miss Anderson?” suggested Mary. “She is not a complete stranger – she cared for Harriet long enough, after all – and it would do her good to have something to look forward to. Also, it would ease the Andersons’ loneliness to meet with us from time to time.”

John thought of the bleak, oppressive atmosphere of the Andersons’ home and a vivacious young woman like Betsy Anderson being trapped there and could only agree with his wife’s suggestion. Who knew, perhaps even Mrs Anderson would find some comfort in having an honourable grandson.

Besides, he and Mary didn’t have that many friends, save for the Stamfords – and, of course, Holmes. As for family, Mary had none and he himself had only Harriet, which didn’t mean much.

Perhaps it was time for expanding their social circle.

“Unless you want to ask Doctor Sawyer, of course,” added Mary as an afterthought.

John thought about that for a moment – then he shook his head.

“No, that would not make much sense,” he said. “She lives in Birmingham, we live in London; and we don’t really belong to the same social circles. The only thing we had in common was the case; and that is well and truly over.”

“True,” admitted Mary. “Is that the reason why you didn’t consider asking Colonel Holroyd, either?”

John nodded. “Part of the reason, yes. Other than the fact that I wouldn’t really want to have _anything_ to do with _Mrs_ Holroyd.”

“Neither would I,” Mary smiled at him. “The Stamfords and the Andersons it is, then. I’ll ask the Andersons if you ask Doctor Stamford.”

“Will do,” John stood and leaned down to kiss her. “Have a bit of rest now; I’m sure his nibs will start crying again soon enough.”

~The End~

SoledadCartwright@20.05.2017.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My lovely and resourceful beta pointed out to me that a boy-child should have two godfathers in Britain. I stand corrected. It is just so that the Watsons don't have that many friends, and somehow I can't imagine them asking Holmes. ;))


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